


Across The Stars

by nomisunrider



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Fix-It, Georgiou Lives, Shenzhou-era Flashbacks, Slow Burn, T'kuvma Lives, The Show I Wanted, Way More Plot Than Anticipated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-02-04 02:59:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 126,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12761715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomisunrider/pseuds/nomisunrider
Summary: "Let's go get our prisoner."Michael Burnham and Philippa Georgiou beam onto the bridge of T'Kuvma's flagship, but the fight goes down just little bit differently.Turns out, one small difference can change everything.





	1. Mission Failure

**Author's Note:**

> They say write the thing you want to read.
> 
> God help me, I wrote 150 pages of it. Turns out writing is kinda fun.
> 
> Partially inspired by lodessa's "k'war'ma'khon," a good fic, y'all should read it.
> 
> Okay here we go.

Philippa Georgiou cannot help but wonder if they’ve made a suicidal decision.

The odds of success certainly can’t be very high, not when she and Michael are beaming onto a Klingon warship with no back up of any kind. However, the majority of the crew certified in both phaser and hand-to-hand combat are down, either in sickbay or lost to the vacuum of space. Philippa had made sure to check this fact before they had suited up.

And when they’d stood side-by-side on the transporter pad, weapons raised, she couldn’t help but feel her heart leap inside her chest, because Michael Burnham had returned from the dead, with a solid plan of action, and they were going into battle as a team.

Together again.

Standing on the transporter pad with her protégée, her friend, her Number One...

Philippa had felt that victory was very much within reach.

With the haze of transport disappearing, Philippa’s heartbeat slows and her thoughts become sharp and tactical. They immediately dispatch two Klingon warriors, and she and Michael stalk slowly, so slowly, onto the bridge of T’kuvma’s ship, phasers raised and hot. The cavernous room is dark, damaged, and filled with rubble and scattered fires, _eating up valuable oxygen_ , Philippa notes.

She quickly subtracts from the amount of time that they can safely remain on board.

“This is the aft section of the bridge,” Michael informs her, her mellow voice low and succinct. “T’Kuvma must be close.”

They each pick a side of the staircase, Michael to the right, Philippa the left. Klingons have low tolerance for the cold, and the bridge is far warmer than what humans would consider comfortable. Sweat beads on Philippa’s forehead, gathering at the roots of her long hair.

 _It is somewhat sobering_ , the captain considers. _Facing opponents that could easily crush our skulls with their bare hands_.

She grips her phaser more tightly.

The captain takes comfort in the presence of her protégée. Michael Burnham is ruthlessly competent in this arena, Philippa has seen her take down aliens three times her size with nothing but fists and cleverness. Her flushed cheeks and elevated heart rate she blamed on fear for the other woman’s safety.

Michael’s training in Vulcan martial arts will keep her safe now.

Or so Philippa desperately hopes.

Michael meets her eyes from across the divide, and she gives her First Officer a nod that is both for Michael’s benefit and for her own. Michael nods back in reassurance, and Klingons rush forth on either side.

The whine of phasers is downright deafening in the looming silence of the Klingon bridge, but the two foot soldiers are easily dispatched.

Hearing a noise to her right, Philippa turns just a little too slowly, and a Klingon with white skin plows into her like a freight train, taking her from the top of the stairs to the floor. The impact drives the breath from her body and the phaser from her hand, and it skitters just out of reach.

Michael gasps and spins to help, but another Klingon emerges behind her, one of a darker skin-tone.

T’Kuvma.

Michael doesn’t have time to charge her phaser to meet him head-on, so quick is the Klingon leader. His arm comes down to strike her in the face, and he disarms her easily. Michael is quick to rally, grabbing a long piece of metal out of the wreckage and using it to counter each savage swing of T’Kumva’s blade.

Using a grappling technique that one of her old commanders had taught her, Philippa writhes and twists in the white Klingon’s grip, driving a finger into his eye socket, and manages to slide her way out from between his arms. She claws forward on the ground, reaching with flailing arms for her phaser.

A savage howl rings out behind her, and she whirls to see the white Klingon above her, knife plunging toward her heart with cruel certainty.

With a desperate shout, Philippa raises her weapon but knows it won’t be quick enough, the quarter of a second that her phaser requires to reach full charge will pass when the Klingon’s blade pierces her chest.

Time slows.

Philippa’s arm moves as if through molasses, icy certainty in her heart of what’s about to happen.

Suddenly, the white Klingon falls sideways, a burst of phaser fire taking him in the head.

Gaping in shock, Philippa whirls around to the source of the shot, where she sees Michael Burnham standing above her on the raised platform, phaser held high, cold certainty in her stance.

T’Kuvma looms behind her like a massive shadow, mek’leth poised to strike. His body is obscured by Michael’s solid form, leaving only his head exposed.

Philippa’s only shot will kill him.

And there will be all-out war.

The possibility of another war, _another bloody, brutal war_ , combined with blaring klaxons of _Save Her!!!!_ , clash in her head with near-biblical force, and Philippa hesitates.

She hesitates.

It’s only a fraction of a second, less than the time it takes to charge a phaser, less than the time it takes for an eye to blink, for a heart to beat, for Michael to smile in relief that she’s just saved Philippa’s life-

The mek’leth stabs Michael through the gut.

The blade pierces her body clean through, coming out the front dark with blood. Michael chokes in surprise, her arms fall limply to her sides, and her phaser drops from her grip.

Philippa’s first shot goes wide.

She attempts to aim a second, but T’Kuvma uses her commander’s limp, skewered body as a _human shield_ , and it’s a disgusting but effective tactic that gives her no options from this position.

The captain rises from the floor, phaser raised high, and starts to run up the stairs towards T’Kuvma, towards _Michael_. She squeezes off a second and third burst as she goes, aiming for T’Kuvma’s slightly exposed left shoulder, but only the third shot connects. It’s a glancing blow, and T’kuvma barely staggers.

“ _Captain, I’ve lost the commander’s life signs!_ ” It’s Saru’s voice in her ear via her comm.

At the same time as Saru’s proclamation, Philippa hears the thudding of booted feet from somewhere down the hallway, and she turns quickly to see a group of Klingons charging towards her, rifles raised and charged.

“She was stabbed,” Philippa states clinically. “More Klingons approaching now.”

The warriors open fire, bolts flying down the corridor, and Philippa shoots a hissing array of pipes in the lower left corner of the bulkhead door. The pipes burst, releasing a mud-brown steam that blocks the view of the oncoming Klingon force. She whirls back towards Michael and T’Kuvma, only for white-hot _flames_ to erupt in her right side. The impact of the lucky phaser bolt knocks her sideways and to her knees, and she cries out in pain.

“ _This counts as an immediate threat to life, I’m getting you out of there, Captain!_ ”

“No!”

In a panic, Philippa hauls herself to her feet and spins toward the spot where T’Kuvma stands triumphant, Michael’s body hanging limp on the blade of his mek’leth. Right side burning, she fires towards them with every ounce of strength left in her body.

Michael’s beautiful face is still, but her dark brown eyes are open, and a non-rational part of Philippa Georgiou’s brain imagines that somehow, Michael can see her coming, racing towards her. Gods, if she can just reach out to touch Michael, anywhere on her body, _anywhere_ , then they can leave this horrible, hellish place together.

 _Together_ …

The glow of dematerialization whirls around the captain, and she leaps forward in a desperate surge of effort, hand outstretched toward Michael-

-and in the next moment, Philippa blinks her eyes open to the hazy orange light of the transport beacons.

She’s back in the transport room of _Shenzhou_.

Alone.

Her hand is still outstretched, straining to grab onto a person that she will never see again.

 

She gasps in a shuddering breath.

And another.

Philippa’s eyes are wide and trembling, her dark hair cascading wildly around her face. Her stomach drops into nothingness, her heart stutters in her chest in an effort to keep beating, to keep blood moving through her clenching body. The fact that T’Kuvma escaped, that the mission itself was a failure, is such a distant thought in her head that it’s practically in another quadrant altogether, because-

…because…

… _Michael is dead_.

 

. . .

 

“…Captain…?”

Saru’s mellow voice is slow and hesitant. Philippa looks up from her trembling, outstretched hand, towards the Kelpien officer. His bright green-yellow eyes gaze mournfully towards her, and something in Philippa’s chest crumples.

“Send out the evacuation order,” Philippa whispers flatly. “ _Commander Saru_.”

 

Aboard one of _Shenzhou_ ’s escape pods, the last one to leave the remains of the vessel, Captain Philippa Georgiou looks out at the wreckage of her ship…

…her home of over ten years…

Grief claws its way forth from the iron box she’d locked it in, and the captain clenches her fists tightly at the material of her uniform pants, forcing down the emotion, clamping the box tightly shut.

 _Michael_ …

 _Shenzhou_ …

Philippa knows that it’s not even a choice as to which she would have saved.

Only when her crew is safe and accounted for aboard the _U.S.S. Kerala_ does Philippa finally flee. Jaw clenched, right side burning, she strides through corridors and emergency stairwells like a woman on a mission, and perhaps deterred by the twisted blank of her features, no one stops her. As if driven by some cruel metaphorical knife, the captain finds herself on Deck 9, in the brig of the _Kerala_.

It’s empty.

Finally alone, Philippa Georgiou drops to her knees, famous composure abandoning her like it never existed at all. She curls in on herself, rocking slowly, fisting her hands through her hair. Burning, screaming grief bursts out of the iron box where she’d locked it away, destroying the lock, the chain, the hinges, the entirety of the structure, and she cries, howls, _wails_ at the agony of it all.

The captain dimly recalls the moment, mere _hours_ ago, when she had told her First Officer that she had known a life of loss…

…now she can say, unequivocally, that she has lost _everything_.

“Michael…”

Philippa whispers into an empty room.

Her heart breaks into tiny pieces inside her chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note (added Jan 28, 2018): For those of you just starting this fic, or giving it another try, I recommend you read through chapter 7 before you make a decision on whether to keep going. I was a new writer when I started this, and I think chapter 7 is where I hit my stride and found my style.
> 
> So, hang in through chapter 7, and if you still want to nope out of it, that's cool.


	2. In the Belly of the Beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Publishing stuff is scary, but it has to be done.

 

Everything hurts.

Well no, not _everything,_ but her entire midsection feels like it’s been kicked forty times by an angry le-matya, and the pain radiates through her arms and down her legs. It’s a dull, throbbing ache that worsens with every rise and fall of her chest.

Michael Burnham opens her eyes.

She isn’t sure what she expected to see, but it certainly isn’t this.

She’s in a primitive-looking, dimly lit medical room. The walls are brown and irregular in shape, with no windows of any kind. The whole setting is vaguely reminiscent of some sort of earthy tunnel or burrow.

A familiar, rancid stench hits Michael’s nose.

With a spike of panic, Michael starts to remember-

 

_-spinning- ducking-_

_-a flash of phaser fire-_

_-a woman’s shout from somewhere behind her-_

_Her shot rings true, the white Klingon falls-_

_…Michael’s world explodes into flaming agony._

Gasping in terror now, she attempts to sit up but moves too quickly. Her stomach gives a vicious throb, and Michael's face contorts with pain. With an audible groan, she flops bonelessly back onto the horizontal surface she’s laying on.

It’s far too wide for a human. Or a Vulcan.

Closing her eyes again, Michael spends several minutes getting her breath in check, her composure intact. Sarek has lectured her on this point many, many times; to acknowledge her emotions, but not surrender to them, is the key to serenity, and serenity is what she should always strive for.

She will not surrender to fear. She will not surrender to panic.

 _If I panic, I am lost._ Michael repeats the phrase first in her head, then under her breath like a mantra, like one of the many ancient High Vulcan phrases and litanies now used by the general population as meditation aids.

_Fact one: I am alive but wounded._

Michael rolls up the three-sizes-too-big medical gown and inspects her stomach. The wound is about two inches long, one inch wide, surrounded by sickly purple bruising and covered with a clear dressing of a kind that Michael has never seen before.

_Fact two: I am receiving treatment in some type of medical facility._

The room resembles _Shenzhou’s_ sickbay in its layout: rows of flat bio beds, each equipped with a monitor near the head. The beds are wider and longer than the ones typically constructed for Federation humanoid use, and the room itself is darker and far,  _far_ hotter, which brings Michael to her third conclusion.

 

_I am on a Klingon starship._

The conclusion that she is on a starship and not terra firma is mere conjecture, a theory supported by the pattern of duct-work in the ceiling and the odd protrusions dotting the walls. Michael suspects that they are handholds designed for the Klingon palmar structure, to be used in case of gravity failure.

The stretch of deductive reasoning serves to calm her down, and Michael is breathing normally by the time she reaches her final conclusion. Her sensitive hearing picks up on the sound of footsteps in the corridor, and she schools her expression into one of completely blank impassivity.

A dark-skinned Klingon thuds into the room. The one she’d fought on the bridge.

_T’Kuvma._

The Klingon strides to her bedside, his massive form hulking over her like a mountain.

_If I panic, I am lost._

He’s unarmed. This matters little, Michael knows he could break her in half with his bare fists, but she’s glad that she doesn’t have to look at the weapon that nearly vivisected her.

“You are Mich-ael Burn-ham,” T’Kuvma finally rasps, pronouncing her full name like he’s choking on rocks.

_If I panic, I am lost._

“I am.” Michael’s tone is flat and disinterested.

“You are a Starfleet scientist.”

It’s close enough to the truth, she supposes. “Yes.”

“You are of Vulcan and Earth.”

Michael raises an eyebrow. It’s demonstrative, but she figures this particular reaction won’t give anything away.

“How do you know that?”

T’Kuvma replies, “We raided the wrecks of your ships…gathered information.”

He looks down at her with an odd sort of hunger in his eyes.

_If I panic, I am lost._

“You are a… _xenoanthropologist,_ ” he states, pronouncing the term slowly and carefully, “with…background in…quantum physics.”

“Yes.” Michael’s stomach pain is lessening with each passing second, because this line of questioning makes _no_ sense.

T’Kuvma surveys her for a moment, sizing her up.

“The Klingon Empire has a task for you.”

 

 

Her walking pace is slow due to her injury, but T’Kuvma makes no effort to force her to move faster. They travel through dimly-lit halls, windowless, claustrophobic, and filled with burning chalices at every corner. The xenoanthropologist side of Michael’s brain understands that the fires are of deeply traditional significance in Klingon culture.

The experienced-spacer side wants to scream at the waste of precious oxygen.

When they finally reach their destination, Michael can only gape.

It’s a massive room, more of a cavern really, approximately the height of five decks, perhaps a quarter of a kilometer long. Struts and scaffolding tower from floor to ceiling, the smell of ozone fills the air. Michael can see flashing sparks of welding torches, she hears the ring of saws and the buzzing hum of fission spanners.

The Klingons are building something.

T’Kuvma beckons to her with a jerk of his head; she follows him painfully to an array of terminals, data screens wide and glowing with readouts and equations in Klingon script.

“We are building a device,” T’Kuvma states, his thick Klingon accent folding around the words. “This device will transport our ships to any corner of the galaxy. It will tear holes in the universe itself, and spread the Klingon empire across the quadrants.”

Michael stares at the data screens. Her spoken Klingon is fairly rusty due to lack of conversational partners, but her written Klingon is up-to-speed.

It’s quantum numerics like she’s never seen before. The readouts, the data, the equations, all of it is leagues beyond what any of her instructors at the Vulcan Science Academy ever touched on. Leagues beyond what _anyone_ has ever touched on, to her knowledge.

Michael is fascinated.

Michael is _terrified_.

“The human brain and Vulcan brain work differently than Klingons,” T’Kuvma continues. “Your species has great ability for thought in four dimensions.”

“ _You_ will complete this project.”

Michael jerks her head around to stare at him. Her denial must be quite obvious, for T’Kuvma grates out a chuckle.

“You _will_ , Mich-ael Burn-ham. This task…it is the only reason you are still alive.”

He stares down at her, the threat obvious in his expression. “Do you wish to remain alive, human?”

“Death does not scare me.” Michael replies evenly, her spine ramrod straight.

T’Kuvma’s nod is little bit respectful. “Perhaps not. But pain…”

He moves faster than Michael can react, slugging her in the gut with a brutal strike of his fist. The blow drops her to the ground, and Michael screams in agony. From a curled up position on the floor, she shakes, trembles, moans through the pain, and wonders dimly if her stab wound has reopened.

T’Kuvma lowers himself down next to her.

“Klingons do not take prisoners, Mich-ael Burn-ham…but pets?” He runs his large fingers through her hair, and Michael flinches away, dark eyes snapping shut like she’s bracing for a punch. “Toys for combat practice, to teach young ones how to curl a fist, how to snap a bone…”

T’Kuvma smiles, baring sharp, pointed teeth.

 

_If I panic…_

_If-…if I-…_

The mantra fails her.

“You will work with us, Mich-ael Burn-ham.” T’Kuvma’s voice is no longer gentle, but Michael finds this business-like tone far less threatening. “We will give you what instruments you require. We will give you food, clothing, protection. You will live…”

T’Kuvma rises to his feet. “…and you will build our machine to rip holes in the universe.”

He extends a hand down towards her, an offer of assistance that is anything but. Michael understands the intention behind it.

It’s a handshake. A contract.

She stares up at the Klingon’s hand. Her jaw clenches, dark eyes flashing.

He correctly reads her expression. “Make no mistake, Mich-ael Burn-ham. We can find others. We can take as many human or Vulcan stock as we need. We will turn the quadrants over for them. And we will _torture them_ ,” he hisses, his sharp teeth flashing. “We will bleed them _dry_ , wring the science from their brains until they _beg_ for death.”

T’Kuvma looks away from her now, up at the construction and scaffolding in the center of the cavernous room.

“With or without you, Mich-ael Burn-ham…we _will_ build this machine, and we will spread our race across the stars.” There’s noble strength in the Klingon’s voice, the conviction of a leader with a vision, of a captain with a mission.

  _…Captain…_

_Captain Georgiou…_

_Philippa!_

Her anguished scream echoes in Michael’s ears.

The Vulcan part of her mind works through the data in a matter of seconds.

She is here. Philippa Georgiou is not.

If Philippa were dead, T’Kuvma would be bragging and boasting, the death of a decorated Starfleet captain would elevate his status immensely in the eyes of his followers.

And it would be another way for him to hurt his human prisoner.

By that logic, her captain must be alive.

 

_Philippa Georgiou is out there somewhere, alive._

 

The thought overwhelms her for a brief moment.

As a scientist, she knows that there are probably more data points that she has not considered. Evidence from occurrences and events of which she has no knowledge, because she’s been unconscious for _two weeks,_ if the stardate clock in the upper right of the Klingon data screen is anything to go by.

What Michael considers to be a logical conclusion might in reality be significantly off.

But Michael needs right now, even more than logic, is _hope._

And what she truly needs, more than either one of those two things, is _time_. More time to consider her options, to gather information, possibly make some sort of plan, plot an escape, or a revolt, or a _mutiny_.

_If I panic, I am lost._

_If I am dead, I am useless._

Michael comes to her decision.

Her stab wound pulses and throbs, sending tendrils of vicious, shaking pain through her entire body; nevertheless, her heart hardens like steel, determination in the set of her jaw and the clarity of her eyes. She extends her right hand upwards towards T’Kuvma, glorious new leader of the Klingon empire.

He gazes down at her for a beat of silence, before taking it.


	3. Avila

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the angst with this chapter, but at least I can start on the flashbacks, aka the show I wanted.
> 
> Still blows my mind that the Disco creators directed, produced, and watched The Vulcan Hello, and somehow concluded "hey yeah, we need to change everything about this immediately."

_Two years, ten months, four days before the Battle at the Binary Stars_

 

Philippa Georgiou has endured a great deal of loss in her life.

Her brother, to accident.

Her father, to space.

Her captains, her crewmates, her friends… _God,_ so many of them, to away-missions, to war and skirmishes and science-gone-wrong.

But the one constant she’s had, the one person she somehow believed would always be present, was her mother.

The subspace transmission arrives after _Shenzhou’s_ dispatch to an out-of-the-way sector of Beta Quadrant space.

 _A stroke_ , the doctor states. _The neighbors found her two days later._

_She didn’t suffer._

 

The crew is sympathetic. When she returns from the funeral, Philippa is greeted with clasped hands, tender words in the corridors between shifts, flowers and cards in her ready-room. She feels lucky, so very lucky that her crew is the close-knit, supportive group that it is. Philippa is aware that this is in great part because of her; she keeps a fairly relaxed command, addresses much of her crew by their first names, makes a great deal effort to be present in the day-to-day workings of her ship, from engineering to sanitation.

Captain Philippa Georgiou is good at her job.

But as she sits sequestered in one of the alcoves of Deck Twelve, Corridor 3, at 0315 hours, she can’t bring herself to feel proud of this fact.

The nearby Phoebus Nebula appears a huge, castle-like form taking up most of the viewport, and much of the actual space beyond. The coral structure glows a deep, dusky blue, _from the ionized copper particles,_ Lieutenant Saru had informed her during the observatory shuttlecraft fly-by.

Philippa wonders absently whether her mother might have liked to see something like this in person, had she ever been given the chance during her life.

She’d always been decent about keeping in touch, sending holos and images of space, of new planets, of the incredible wonders that she’d had the privilege of seeing first-hand as a serving member of Starfleet. Just hours before, she’d saved a copy of the fly-by images to her PADD. It’s reflexive at this point, just another part of her end-of-the-day routine.

 

_They’ll never be sent anywhere now._

So distracted is Philippa Georgiou by these thoughts, she doesn’t notice the approach of one of her crewmembers until the woman sits down next to her on the padded alcove bench.

Lieutenant Commander Michael Burnham looks put-together as always, even while pulling a gamma-shift to cover for an ill crewmate. The only tell of her weariness are the dark circles beneath her eyes. Somehow, the heavy-lidded gaze seems to contribute to a different sort of beauty, one Philippa has not yet seen on her friend: spectral, mysterious, _wise_ , a strange effect amplified by the blue tint to her dark skin from the nebula outside of the window.

Michael carries two steaming cups of tea in her hands. She offers one silently to Philippa, and the older woman accepts it gratefully. She isn’t really in the mood for eating or drinking anything, but the thoughtful gesture, as well as the warmth between her palms, serves to brighten her mood.

They gaze at the nebula for several minutes. Michael sips her tea quietly.

Philippa realizes, with some degree of surprise, that they are now both orphans.

 It’s a truly depressing thing to have in common with someone.

 “What are you thinking about?” Michael regards her from her position two feet away. Her legs are crossed on the bench in a half-lotus position but her spine is relaxed, one of her arms bent on the windowsill to partially support her head.

 Philippa considers modifying her answer, but it’s the middle of gamma-shift, she’s exhausted, her mother is dead, and her filters are fairly low at the moment.

 “I am contemplating what the odds might be of a Vulcan family adopting a Starfleet captain in her early-fifties as their foster child.”

Michael blinks. An amused smile pulls its way across her lips.

“Would you like me to run a statistical model on the probabilities?”

Philippa manages a soft laugh. “No need for that, my friend. It was not a serious statement.”

The captain sighs, the lack of sleep making her unusually unguarded. “I am uncertain of what I expected would happen,” she muses towards the stars. “We throw ourselves into danger and death on a weekly basis, somehow it never occurred to me that I could lose someone in any other way.”

From her place on the couch, Michael nods once, dark eyes reflecting the dusty blue of the nebula.

“One never really contemplates the possibility of losing their parents,” she finally responds. “Not as an eight-year old…not as a twenty-eight year old…”

 Her lips quirk. “Not even as a Starfleet captain in her early-fifties.”

 Even though she believes it a silly custom, Philippa can appreciate her protégée’s respectful gesture in observing the human tradition of not referring to peoples’ ages once they pass a certain point.

 “Will you…tell me a little about her?” Michael asks somewhat uncertainly, and Philippa looks at her in surprise.

Every serving member of the _U.S.S._ _Shenzhou_ is aware of the tragic fate of Michael Burnham’s biological parents, but the woman herself is incredibly reticent concerning the topic and quick to skirt any type of emotional discussion about families. Philippa knows this from years of attempting to bring up the subject organically in an effort to get to know the woman better. In light of Michael’s known behavioral patterns, the request is intensely out-of-character.

But this does not make it unwelcome.

“Only if you tell me a little about yours,” Philippa finally responds, the diplomat in her unable to resist the quid-pro-quo.

Michael looks down at her lap with a small, shy smile. “What memories I have of Tiana Burnham are softened by childhood and faded from the passing of time; they are not very accurate.”

“I don’t ask this as your superior officer, Michael, but as your friend,” Philippa corrects gently. “Why should I care about the accuracy of your memories, so long as your feelings behind them are true?”

Michael looks up from her lap with a slightly stunned expression, the one she wears when something both deeply moves and utterly baffles her. Philippa has seen it maybe five times, in an equal number of years.

She wonders whether she ought to feel proud of herself.

“Okay then.” Michael nods peacefully in agreement. She looks towards Philippa, placing her chin in her hand like a child eager for a story.

It’s a little bit adorable.

Philippa shakes her head to clear the thought.

“She was born Aisha Osman,” the captain begins, “In a mid-sized town in west Malaysia…”

In a secluded area of the ship, in the early hours of the morning, seated in front of a stunning stellar phenomenon, Philippa Georgiou weaves a fascinating tale about her mother, explaining the currents of her life, the contents of her character with exceptional reverence, and Michael eats up the memories hungrily, her dark eyes wide and wondering.

As she delineates the story of her mother’s life, the captain considers the possibility that the younger woman is imagining what her own life might be like, were Tiana Burnham still in it.

She thinks back on her thirty-plus years of adventures, her wins and her losses, her sorrows and her joys, and knows that she is lucky indeed, that she’s always had her mother with whom she had always been able to share everything.

Aisha Georgiou…

_Ibu…_

She’ll never _talk_ to her again.

 

And suddenly Philippa is crying. Grief leaks from the cracks in her heart, faster and faster until it becomes a flood. Her shoulders tremble, her breath hitches uncontrollably, her hands come up to cover her face like that will somehow stem the tide of blood-red _agony,_ of loneliness, of abandonment, of love without a vessel.

She registers the soft presence of a person at her side, leaning into her. Michael’s arm drapes across her back, her opposite hand coming up to rub one of her biceps. Her head comes to rest gently on Philippa’s shoulder.

It’s an incredibly tactile move for her Vulcan-raised friend, but Philippa can’t bring herself to think further on that right now.

 

Not now that her mother is gone, forever.

 

An incalculable amount of time passes, but eventually the flood eases to a trickle, and the tears finally ebb. From her warm, comfortable place in Michael’s arms, Philippa feels the cracks in her heart close, just a little bit.

There’s a chance of the moment becoming awkward, but thankfully, Michael’s comm unit crackles to life.

“ _Lieutenant Commander Burnham, please report to Engineering Deck Three. Urgent assistance needed on the quantum spectroscopy readouts concerning the nebula origins.”_

Michael sighs, annoyance coloring the sound, before replying, “On my way.”

She unfolds herself from her position at Philippa’s side, but instead of standing up and departing, she returns to her seat across from the captain, where her tea has grown cold. Philippa is aware that she likely looks a complete mess after crying so desperately in her protégée’s arms, but she can’t bring herself to care overly much.

Particularly when she sees faint, matching tear tracks on Michael’s face.

She manages a watery smile. “Shouldn’t you be going to do some quantum spectroscopy?” Philippa wipes her wet cheeks with the back of her sleeve. “It’s a perfect time of day for it.”

It can’t be later than 0530 hours, which is why the suggestion is completely ridiculous.

Michael doesn’t reply, though it seems like she wants to. She looks utterly torn for a brief moment, before reaching for the captain’s hand. Philippa is completely shocked when the other woman laces their fingers together and lays a soft kiss on her knuckles.

Standing up now, Michael Burnham nods respectfully, _professionally,_ before turning on her heel and walking away.

The captain dimly recognizes the feeling of paper in her hand, the one that her protégée had just brushed her lips across. She unfolds the paper, and reads the words written across it.

_“Right now, your grief is a deep, gaping hole, with sharp edges and howling depths._

_But as you move forward in life, the edges soften, and other beautiful things start to grow around it, flowers of events, and trees of experiences._

_The hole never goes away, but it becomes gentler. A sort of a garden in your soul, a wellspring of peace._

_A place that you can visit when you want to be near your love.”_

_Philippa- As a child of Vulcan, I was never taught to grieve in any meaningful way; thus I was uncertain if I could possibly offer you any real comfort. However, my foster mother read this verse to me quite often in my childhood. It has become a balm of sorts for the pain that I carry from the loss of my family._

_I_ _am sure it contains no information that you do not already know, however, the composition offers a type of beauty that I find both comforting and moving._

_I hope that it will bring you the same level of peace that it brought me._

 

 * * * * *

 

Philippa reads the passage back to Amanda at her foster-daughter’s funeral. Sarek is silent, his face pale and drawn. Spock’s head is bowed. Amanda weeps openly.

The words come easily, because Philippa is thousands of light-years away when she reads them. She is back on _Shenzhou,_ over three years ago, remembering the woman who once held her heart in the palm of her hands.

Gentle, determined, brave. A woman who had done what she had to do, damn the consequences. And the consequences, by God, were absolute. Philippa is prepared to defend her to Starfleet command, but the tide of war waits for no one, and there is no time or resources for a posthumous court-martial.

The captain lives on, the _U.S.S. Discovery_ is hers to command. An experimental science vessel filled to bursting with brilliant minds and cutting-edge research.

 

Michael would have loved it.

 

Philippa walks the corridors every night, checking on every project, every breakthrough. She spends a great deal of time in Lieutenant Paul Stamets’ lab, partially out of guilt that she has all but commandeered the man’s life work to fight this war, and partially because the sheer beauty of his work is something she enjoys basking in at the end of these long, hard days. On quiet nights, Philippa allows herself to drop into a shallow trance while the glowing spores of the mycellial network dance across her pale face, her dark hair. She wonders how the bright white embers, almost dust-like in their appearance, would look reflected on Michael’s dark skin, her full lips, her deep brown, curious eyes.

_Would have looked._

Cadet Sylvia Tilly is a constant in Stamets’ lab. The woman is a brilliant scientist, there’s no doubting that, but she is young, so damn _young_ to be serving on a warship, Philippa thinks about this every time she sees her. With her easy smile, constant chatter, and tongue-tied nervousness in the captain’s presence, Cadet Tilly is practically the opposite of another brilliant young Starfleet scientist that Philippa had once known.

She likes Tilly immensely.

Keyla Detmer lives, Danby Connor does not. Philippa misses his witty presence, but Joann Owosekun is brilliant and does his job just as well, if not better.

She wonders from time to time what became of Ensign Connor, who never made it to sickbay.

 

**

 

Philippa surrenders to her grief in the privacy of her own quarters. Through tear-filled eyes, she peers out at the stars and wonders if Michael is among them somewhere. She imagines the other woman is finally free to explore the universe, to ride on the spines of swirling nebulae, to dip into the deepest pools of dark matter and become one with the mysterious energy, finally reconciling time and space from somewhere far beyond the confines of both.

It is a desperate effort to find some sort of peace in the face of such tragedy, Philippa knows. It is emotional, sentimental, poetic…she wonders if she ought to write these thoughts down somewhere. Scribble them down on a piece of paper and hand them off as a balm to a grieving friend, as Michael had once done for her, so very long ago.

 

_That night…_

_Was that when it started?_

_Or were things in motion long before then?_

 

Michael was raised Vulcan; to clasp hands was already an intimate gesture for her, but to _kiss_ the hand of another…

 …to brush one’s lips softly across splayed fingers, one of the most nerve-rich areas on the humanoid body….

Philippa had not wanted to see it then. Had _refused_ to see it then. Regulations, regulations, and the possibility, however vague, that she could be taking advantage of the younger woman. Michael Burnham’s rise through the ranks had been nothing short of meteoric, and the captain could not, _would not,_ cast any more doubt on her protégée’s promotions by engaging in something so deeply unprofessional. It could have ruined her career.

 _But then again, she had willingly gone and ruined her own career._ Philippa has to acknowledge this fact ironically, or else it will rip her up inside. _Without any outside intervention from myself._

When she gazes out at the stars from her quarters, sometimes dry-eyed, sometimes with tears flowing down her cheeks, Philippa Georgiou can’t help but admit that perhaps she was too successful in her efforts to make Michael Burnham human again. The Starfleet protocols that Georgiou had once lived by had not been sufficient to stop her protégée from doing what she felt was right, to save the ship and the crew. Michael had followed her heart, as the captain had always hoped she would.

Philippa wonders constantly what might have happened, had she been one second slower in throwing off the Vulcan Neck Pinch.

If she had been one second later, in reaching the bridge to belay Michael’s order to fire.

 _I_ _t likely would have changed nothing,_ she muses. The Klingon back-up forces were already on their way. Perhaps what had happened was bound to happen, the course plotted and set long before either of them could have done anything to change it.

_Or it might have changed everything._

There is no way to know for certain, unless she asks T’kuvma himself. Wherever the Klingon leader might be.

 

(She thinks of the Klingon messiah quite often, her phaser whipping up in time to melt T’kuvma’s face off, Michael stumbling from the glancing blow of his knife, only to fall safe, _safe,_ into Philippa’s arms…)

 

**

 

It’s easier to maintain her connection with reality during battle simulations. The outcome improves with every one of them. Georgiou becomes faster in her tactics, in her orders. She was a soldier once, and the mindset returns as if it had never left. She and Commander Landry work well together, though Philippa considers the woman to be cold and ruthless in the extreme.

Second Officer Saru remains Georgiou’s Second Officer, despite deserving a promotion. It is sentimental of her, but she wants to protect him just a little bit longer from the realities of what they are doing. To wage war as a prey-species will do him a great deal of psychological damage, Philippa knows this beyond the shadow of a doubt.

She needs Saru to remain by her side for as long as he possibly can.

Through all of the simulations and spore drive tests and tactical meetings and holo-conferences with Starfleet command, Philippa is often torn between being glad that her former first officer will never have to see such violence, and wishing Michael were here on _Discovery_ with her.

 _She had the mindset of soldier,_ Philippa concedes. _She never once hesitated that day._

Michael Burnham would have been good at war.

This fact makes Philippa angry enough to throw things, because if her protégée _had_ been on the bridge during the Battle at the Binary Stars, she knows that it would have ended differently. She is not so bold as to believe Michael’s presence would have won the day, but had she been there to do her job, to manage the intricacies of interstellar combat, had Philippa Georgiou not been forced to fight a massive space battle one man down…perhaps the _Shenzhou_ would have made it out intact, or at the very least, suffered far fewer casualties.

_How could you have done this?_

The words sometimes come as a whisper, and sometimes as a scream. Philippa is not sure if they are directed at Michael, or at herself, because she is not certain which one of them holds the blame.

Surely it had been within her rights to not remand her first officer to the brig, considering the situation they had been in. Starfleet regulation takes a clear stance on mutiny, the consequences laid out plain and simple, but if Michael Burnham could have helped save the ship, helped fight the battle, helped _save lives_ …

…would it not have been worth the breach in protocol, in the end?

These thoughts will only drive her insane, Philippa know this. But they plague her nonetheless.

The failure of that final away mission haunts Philippa every day and night. Her hesitation during that one, critical moment eats her alive, gnaws at her consciousness, terrorizes her dreams, makes her curl up and moan in agony. The kill shot she should have taken, _should have taken,_ the burden of the resulting war falling upon her own shoulders, a burden she would gladly accept if only it would bring Michael Burnham back from the dead.

 

_What the hell good is mission objective, compared to the life of a loved one?_

_What is protocol, in the face of her smile?_

Somehow, Michael had understood this implicitly.

Michael Burnham had stood between T’kuvma and Philippa with a live phaser in her hand, and had chosen to save _her._

Philippa Georgiou never expected to be out-emotioned by humanity’s first child of Vulcan. She’s uncertain whether she ought to feel proud or ashamed.

What pride she does manage to feel only turns to ashes when she remembers what the outcome of Michael’s choices had been. Philippa feels that this is a penance she will be paying for the rest of her life.

Not so terrifying a prospect, considering they could all die tomorrow.

 

**

 

Michael’s copy of _Alice in Wonderland_ has a permanent home beneath her pillow.

 

She’s read it so many times it’s beginning to fall apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not super happy with the non-flashback part, but at least now I can move on. Also I read the novel "Desperate Hours," which states that Georgiou got her last name from her ex-husband. I've elected to ignore that, because it seems like some straight bullshit. 
> 
> Comment you cowards.
> 
> (Added 02/01/2018)- More about the flashbacks: you don't have to read them if that's not your jam. They enhance the story in my opinion, but they're not necessary for understanding the plot. Though I gotta say, if you're here for the Michael/Philippa content, you're gonna be waiting awhile


	4. Beauty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dang guys, thanks for the reviews. Feels weird to be so intent on writing such an intense long-ass fic when half of the pairing died during the premier, but hey, that's just femslash I suppose.

_Four years, two months, eight days before the Battle at the Binary Stars_

The away-mission to the human colony on Andawar II to rescue the ambassador’s family was a success.

This was in no little part due to the tactics of Lieutenant Commander Michael Burnham’s infiltration cell, and Captain Philippa Georgiou’s immense diplomatic clout. She’d talked circles around the Andawarian council for days, gathering scraps of information to build into a usable image for Burnham’s strike team to use.

Now, the crew of the _U.S.S. Shenzhou_ gets to enjoy the party thrown by the ambassador in gratitude.

Michael stands near the wall, observing the partygoers on the dance floor. Dancing is of great significance in the Andawarian culture, with nearly every able-bodied adult trained in the moves and motions.

Captain Georgiou is a trained classical dancer, Michael recalls this from both her research into the woman’s past and their increasingly frequent personal conversations. This fact is no more apparent than right now, as the captain allows herself to be spun and dipped in the arms of Yarin Noctura, the Andawarian diplomat whose family they had saved. The crew has shucked their uniforms in favor of formal civilian dress, and Philippa Georgiou’s black gown serves to accentuate her movements, outlining the quiver of muscles and the rhythmic grace in her steps.

The two dancers slide into a complex series of tucks and whirls, and Michael feels her heart leap inside her chest.

_Odd._

She wonders at the physical reaction. Dancing is not a Vulcan pastime, nor is it of any significant cultural relevance; the word “dance” does not even exist in the Vulcan language. It is an irrelevant act, considered useless at best and a possible trigger of emotional urges at worst.

And yet…as Michael watches her captain’s movements, the flying of her dark hair, her wide, exhilarated smile, she speculates that the emotional urges caused by dancing are perhaps the intended outcome.

For a Vulcan, this would be cause to be wary.

But Michael Burnham is human. Her emotional urges do not, _should not,_ frighten her.

Her heart continues to beat erratically with Philippa’s twists and turns, taut muscles in the captain’s arms quivering with the exertion. The increase in her heart rate sends warm blood to her cheeks, a heat that pervades the rest of her body as well.

Michael notes this physiological reaction, cataloguing it with the mind of a scientist. _An involuntary and uncontrollable response,_ she concludes.

But not an unpleasant one.

Indeed, with every brilliant cut of Philippa’s willow frame, accentuated and highlighted by the ambassador’s larger, stockier body, Michael feels that she might be dancing herself.

“Lieutenant Burnham?”

Jolted suddenly from her thoughts, Michael looks to her left, where one of the Andawarian diplomats regards her from an arms-length away. A shorter woman with red hair, her face lined rather attractively from exposure to the planet’s two suns.

“Do me the honor of the next dance?” The woman asks, a hopeful smile on her face.

Michael hesitates, the fear of looking foolish rising up in her chest with a sickly feeling. She reflexively glances towards Philippa, who spins and whirls in a pattern that is as beautiful as it is inconceivable.

_Inconceivable…_

Michael’s upbringing leaves her with few regrets, but for the first time, she wishes she had been given the opportunity to pursue illogical past-times such as dancing. Michael wishes that she, like her captain, had been allowed the chance to seek joy in beauty, rather than logic.

_Well then…_

_Is this not the chance?_

Blinking in surprise at the logic behind the stray thought, Michael comes to a terrifying decision.

“Of course.” She takes the woman’s extended hand, managing a self-conscious smile. “You will have to lead, I have very little experience.”

The look in the woman’s eyes goes from hopeful to mischievous. “Don’t you worry, Lieutenant, I have enough experience for two.”

 

Michael registers the double-entendre seven hours and nine minutes later from the comfort of Shia Ver Lan’s bed.

 _An unexpected turn of events,_ she later reflects, _though not unwelcome._

The night with Shia Ver Lan is just another unusual occurrence in her life as a Starfleet officer, and odd looks from the captain aside, Michael spends very little time dwelling on it. Instead, she augments her structured off-shift schedule with holo-vid lessons on the dance traditions of various species, beginning with the style she’d seen Philippa Georgiou perform with the ambassador.

The captain’s captivating dance had been one of the most beautiful things Michael had ever seen in her life, ranked highly in a working list that includes stellar phenomena, theoretical quantum mathematics, and the few memories she has of her mother’s smile.

In her tiny, private Lieutenant quarters, Michael Burnham earnestly begins her study of beauty.

 

 

**

 

_Beauty…_ Michael muses. _An irrelevant consideration for the majority of Vulcans._

_But the majority of Vulcans have never been held captive aboard a Klingon war-bird._

She counts through her inhales, and matches her exhales in length. The pain in her head and her ribs acts as a distractor, but she does her very best to accept it, embrace it, and allow it to slip away like a twig floating down a river. Clinging to the memories of one of the best nights of her life, Michael closes her eyes and holds on tightly, allowing joy and peace to crowd out pain and fear.

 _My own fault,_ Michael concludes, _for my display of strength._

She’s been a prisoner for nearly two months. Including her time unconscious and healing, one month, twenty-six days. The scratches carved into the wall of her cell to mark the time make her feel like even more of a captive than she already is, but the Klingons have blacked out the time and date markers on her datascreen.

It is a subtle form of psychological torture. Michael is aware of this, and tries not to dwell too much on it.

The Klingons on the ship ignore her for the most part. In a quiet corner of the science deck, she works on quantum theory, meditating on thought experiments and crunching numbers using pre-existing data. Within three hours of work, it becomes abundantly clear to Michael that they’ll need to source new information if she is to make any type of headway on the device.

The idea that she will actually be able to this is somewhat laughable.

It is not the idea of wormholes themselves that cause her doubt; stable wormholes exist throughout the known universe, Michael has seen many her service in Starfleet. No, the real issue here is creating stable wormholes artificially. Building a four-dimensional tesseract via three-dimensional technology is illogical; it simply makes no physical sense, but the work that the Klingon scientists have already managed before her arrival is nothing short of astounding. To reconcile time, space, and dimension in such a way is the holy grail of this field, and the Klingons have come closer to doing this than any known species in the universe.

Michael is a scientist, both by degree and by nature, and has a natural inclination to build upon these groundbreaking foundations her captors have laid down for her. She certainly does not want her captors to succeed in building the device, but she cannot help but be intensely intrigued, intensely _fascinated_ by the science behind it.

Nevertheless, on this Klingon science vessel, Michael knows full well that she is nothing more than a weapon at best, and a slave at worst. A disgraced prisoner. An object of derision.

A traitor to her race.

This fact overwhelms her with shame at times. When she studies the Klingon language in her corner of the science bay, when she falls deep into meditation on how to weaponize the universe’s most mysterious forces, when she looks at her captors, their smooth, domed heads, their facial ridges, their dense, muscular forms, and remembers the Klingon raiders who murdered her parents.

_Every day that I live, is a day that I betray everything that I once stood for._

The thought is a source of intense, dark amusement for Michael. Apparently, once she had begun to betray her principles, there was just no possible way for her to stop.

_“Stand down, Commander Burnham. That’s an order.”_

_“You are relieved of duty…”_

_"_ _How could you have done this?”_

Philippa Georgiou’s accented voice speaks to her at all times of day and night, cold with anger, dark with disappointment. Every word is like a blow, like the stab of a knife, yet as she hunkers down in the dimly-lit Klingon science vessel, dwarfed by the massive, hulking machine, Michael clings to the voice like a lifeline.

After all…who knows if she will ever hear it again?

Her one saving grace when her thoughts grow dark is the knowledge that, in her final moments before being gutted on T’Kuvma’s flagship, she had managed to save her captain’s life. Michael holds fast to the memory of the white-skinned Klingon falling to the side with holes burned through his skull, of Philippa’s astonished face turning towards her in the split second afterwards. Michael uses this memory as a shield against her depression, as a balm for her shame, because at the very, _very_ least…she had managed to succeed at one thing that day.

And she has to admit, when she looks out at the stars through the tiny window set into the wall of her cell, that if she could have chosen just _one_ thing to have gone right that day, May 11 th, 2256, it would have been that.

_One must be thankful for the small blessings._

Captain Georgiou had told her this once, when, while hiking ten kilometers in a raging monsoon during an away mission, they had stumbled upon a grove of phosphorescent mushrooms lighting up the forest in shades of electric blue. Upon seeing the pale blue phosphorin molecules illuminating the captain’s face, her dark eyes glowing like distant stars, like gemstones, like the frail embers of a dying fire, Michael had to agree.

Walking through her memories of brighter times tends to help, but it also raises the singular, persistent question.

 

_How did it all go so wrong?_

 

If her imagination takes her away from her captivity, her present physical state serves to ground her most acutely.

Michael shucked her Starfleet uniform shirt on day two of being conscious, leaving her in her Fleet-issue tank top. The Klingon ship is ten degrees hotter than she’s used to, and she sees no point in being uncomfortable. She reverted her hair to its natural state soon after, the upkeep of the straightened style is all but impossible in a ship whose occupants have no hair to speak of.

The Klingons she works with talk to her in broken and terrible English, which is impressive in itself.

_T’Kuvma’s doing, no doubt._

From what evidence Michael has been able to gather, the Klingon rebel is an unorthodox firebrand, with unusual strategies and a truly revolutionary outlook for the Klingon Empire. Despite his status as Primary Enemy of the Federation, Michael can’t help but feel a grudging respect for Lord T’Kuvma, the leader of the Klingon war force.

Nevertheless, he is the reason she lies crumpled on the floor of a Klingon science vessel deep in enemy territory, struggling to breathe through her no doubt cracked ribs.

_It’s a game for them._

Michael grates out a low moan from her painfully curled up position near the data bank.

_I’m a game, for them._

The Klingons she works with often spar and wrestle with each other, matching blows in a deadly dance one minute and clapping each other on the back in the next. They’ve kept her out of this until now, because to engage in a fight with a weak human female would be dishonorable in the extreme.

But Michael had gotten angry. A pair of impatient Klingon technicians had been pushing her around for nearly a month, and she finally snapped, taking up a piece of metal from a scrap pile and using it as a crude battle-axe.

She had won that fight. But she had lost the next five.

Her show of strength had only put a target on her back.

Michael wants to howl at the indignity of it all, at the fact that if she wants to remain alive, to work towards this vital goal of hers, she has to accept that she will be at the bottom of the food chain. The lowest of the low. The weakest, the most dishonored.

_I have grown used to being respected._

The thought makes Michael laugh weakly, because she never could have conceived of such a concept seven years ago. And in the next second, her face twists into a grimace, because laughing _hurts._

_In….and out._

_In…and out._

Michael breathes. Slowly, slowly, she uncoils her body in the spot where her latest opponent had left her in a heap. Her legs and arms straighten, her spine aligns with vertebrae stacked, her neck twists back into a neutral position until she’s lying supine on the ground, eyes towards the ceiling.

In this way, Sarek comes to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Found out Michelle Yeoh is a trained ballet dancer and nearly went pro before a spinal injury made her switch to being a professional badass. The flashback wrote itself.
> 
> Sorry about the lack of actual Michael/Philippa interaction, but I'll get there, don't worry.


	5. Sarek's Informant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These flashbacks are getting out of control...

 

_Six years, one month, two days before the Battle at the Binary Stars_

 

“Jinda, status!”

“All systems online Captain, but the thruster-fire won’t be sufficient! The black holes are pulling us in!”

The _Shenzhou’_ s latest mission to offer mechanical assistance to the scientific outpost stationed near the Maw had gone smoothly, until it hadn’t.

The outpost had been ransacked by a war-like race with space-faring technology, but without warp capability. When the _Shenzhou_ hailed, the outpost opened fire, forcing the ship into a flight path too close to the gravity wells.

Philippa Georgiou squares her shoulders and regards the system of black holes and spatial anomalies laid out in four dimensions in front of the  _Shenzhou_. The very sight of the Maw makes her nauseous; humanoid brains are simply not capable of visually interpreting the bent and deformed space-time. But there is nothing else to see, the horrific dark slashes in reality do not top out, nor do they bottom out, nor do they seem to end in any direction other than behind them.

And reversing was not an option.

“Mr. Patel, can you deploy photon torpedoes forward of the ship? We can raise front shields, use the shockwave to jumpstart our momentum!” It’s a desperate gambit, but one she’s used with success in the past.

“Negative, Captain!” Comes the response. “Running simulations now, the force would not be enough to achieve escape velocity, even with the entirety of our arsenal.”

Georgiou quickly scans the readout of the necessary escape velocity. “A concentrated jump to warp, then? Warp five or above would be sufficient to break through—“

“Unable to comply,” Science Officer Weitz responds from his console. His eyes dart across the engineering report. “ _Shenzhou_ can’t manage warp velocity higher than warp three presently due to ongoing core malfunctions.”

Not for the first time, Georgiou curses the advanced age of her ship, and the resulting warp core breakdowns that are becoming entirely too common.

“Hit that science outpost with our tractor beam, use it as an anchor!”

Ensign Gant grits his teeth as he physically fights with the tractor beam controls at his tactical console. “The outpost is constructed over a stable wormhole acting as a fixed point in space-time, I can’t get a lock on it!”

The red alert signal is on and glaring. Georgiou has alerted her officers ship-wide to the situation, and she is not surprised when her comm chirps.

“ _Captain, this is Chief Johar. Ensign Burnham is with me; she claims she can plot us a course through the Maw.”_

“What!?”

The Maw is a system of black holes and gravitational anomalies from which no ship has ever escaped. Georgiou has always equated it to a storming stellar whirlpool, pulling in anything and everything that gets too close and swallowing it without a trace.

“ _I believe her, Captain!”_

Georgiou thinks quickly. Chief Engineer Saladin Johar is a brilliant man with a knack for antimatter technology, he is familiar enough with the field of applied quantum physics to be trustworthy on this.

“Send her up.”

 

 

Ensign Michael Burnham arrives on the bridge, panting, in eleven seconds. An impressive record, Georgiou notes, but she has no time for compliments.

“Ensign, report!” The captain rises to her feet to look the other woman in the eye.

“Captain.” Burnham stands in front of her. “I have significant experience in charting courses through quantum anomalies of this nature; I believe I can get the _Shenzhou_ through the Maw and out the other side with an approximate fifty-eight point four percent chance of success.”

“That’s not very high!” Commander ch’Theloh argues.

“It is far higher than our probability of escape via subwarp engines, even with a targeted proton torpedo burst.” Burnham counters.

Ensign Patel turns in his chair. “Burnham, how could you possibly have experience charting courses through a _wall_ of black holes?”

“It is a type of challenge in the field of theoretical quantum physics that I enjoy completing in my spare time, Ensign, and “range” would be a more accurate term.” Burnham’s tone is efficient and matter-of-fact while she strides to the science station.

“So you’re saying it’s just a game you like to play?” ch’Theloh demands.

“Enough!” Georgiou shouts, cutting through the bickering with a sharp admonishment. She turns on her heel and follows to where Burnham stands next to Science Officer Weitz. The younger woman is stock-still, but her fists clench and unclench at her sides.

“Captain, we are losing time. My odds of success have dropped to fifty-four percent in the last twenty seconds, and they will continue to drop in a logarithmic fashion the longer we delay.”

The urgency is plain in her voice, and Georgiou regards the younger woman for a brief moment. She knows that Michael Burnham studied quantum physics at the Vulcan Science Academy, and is intelligent to the point of prodigious, if her graduating scores are anything to go by…

…but this is a long shot that borders on insanity. The idea of going _through_ the Maw has never been posited because it is not worth the incalculable risk, not to mention it makes no utter _sense…_

But Burnham says she can do it, and Johar apparently believes her.

Georgiou looks at Michael Burnham, really _looks_ at her, the straightened shoulders, the confident gaze, the dark, set conviction in her eyes…

…and finds, strangely, that she believes her as well.

The captain finally nods. “Do it, Burnham.”

The younger woman exhales audibly in relief, before turning to the science station. She pulls up an astrometrics program that Georgiou feels no shame in finding utter gibberish; the numerics, charts, and readouts make no sense to her whatsoever. Burnham’s fingers fly over the screen, her dark brown eyes reflecting the bright glyphs and glowing equations.

“I can stay ahead of _Shenzhou,_ but not by far; Lieutenant Jinda, I am feeding you the headings now.”

Silence.

Burnham jerks her head up from her station. “Lieutenant!”

Jinda is staring at Burnham with a mixture of awe and fear, but she quickly turns back to her controls at the admonishment. She takes in the new course corrections and adjusts the saucer accordingly, directing the ship towards the Maw.

Georgiou forces down the horrible, yawning _fear_ in her gut.

Of course she has every right to be terrified, but she has to remain strong for the crew.

The visual feed steadily darkens until completely black, with the odd flicker of light cutting across it at bizarre intervals. The darkness seems to have a shape, a weight, a mass, buffeting the _Shenzhou_ from above like a solar wind, ripping at it from below like an ocean current. The ship starts to shake and groan audibly.

“The gravity from the black holes is pulling us in _literally_ every direction!” Patel exclaims from his terminal.

“The vector forces _will_ cancel out, if we maintain our course!” Burnham retorts sharply.

“Let her work, all of you!” Georgiou commands, irritation plain in her voice. They’ve committed to this course of action, so it’s in everyone’s best interest to let Burnham perform to the best of her abilities.

The seconds turn to minutes, every single one of which passes like an hour. The starship shakes and shudders, jolting violently as it skims just outside of event horizons, _like a stone skipping across a pond,_ Georgiou imagines. _Or more accurately, a raging, screaming river._

Her hands clench the armrests of the captain’s chair in a vice-like grip.

From the science terminal, Michael Burnham’s fingers dance across the screen. Her dark eyes are wide and unblinking, sweat beads at her forehead, trickling down her face when she refuses to stop her calculations to wipe it away.

The bridge crew is silent, the only movement is from Jinda as she pilots the ship according the headings that Burnham sends her.

Suddenly, Burnham’s head whips up from the terminal. “Brace yourselves!”

It’s the only warning that Georgiou receives.

The _Shenzhou_ bucks with unholy force, and there’s a muffled groan of metal-on-metal. The sensation is brutally familiar; the captain realizes that they have most likely hit another ship, the wreckage of one of the unfortunate vessels sucked into the gravitational wells.

The deck shakes with the impact. Sparks fly from various stations, Ensign Yoshida yelps as her console erupts into flames. Assorted backup systems whir and grind as they come online, and the lights on the bridge dim alarmingly.

 

The science terminal goes dark.

 

Burnham gazes at the blank data screen in horror.

“No… _no_ …” she whispers, shaking her head in denial, and the bridge crew starts shouting.

“Get engineering to give us a reroute!”

“-there’s no time-“

“-we need a heading, Burnham!-“

Weitz has the back panel of the terminal open, hands ready to work but face drawing a panicked blank, until Georgiou rips him away and delivers a swift, sharp kick to the terminal stand.

All of the lights come on, and the machine hums to life.

Burnham looks to her in astonishment.

The captain nods, her mouth quirking into a brief smile before she turns away.

“Continue, Ensign Burnham.”

 

 

 

The _U.S.S. Shenzhou_ emerges from the Maw two hours, forty-four minutes, and five seconds after it went in.

The viewscreen lights up again with a view of normal space, glowing stars and planets twinkling in the distance. The violent shaking from the gravity of the black holes ceases almost immediately, replaced by merciful stillness. There’s scattered gasps and laughter across the bridge, which quickly crescendo into applause for the hero of the hour.

At the science console, Michael Burnham’s eyes flutter shut, and she sways she stands, utterly spent. The captain jumps up to steady her.

“Easy, Ensign.” She takes the young woman by the shoulders, holding her in place. She can’t help the broad smile that crosses her face. “Well done, Michael. _Very well done_.”

“Permission to leave the bridge, Captain?” Burnham mumbles.

“Of course.” Georgiou nods. “ch’Theloh, you have the conn.”

Michael starts in surprise when the captain takes her arm.

 

 

 

The walk to Ensign Burnham’s quarters takes twice as long as it typically would. Philippa understands that this is because Michael is physically, as well as mentally exhausted. After all, she _had_ crunched gravitational and electromagnetic data in real time to plot a course that skimmed and skipped their starship past holes in reality itself.

She’d saved the _Shenzhou,_ and all 385 hands on board.

It’s an impressive scientific feat, at the very least.

Ensigns of the starship _Shenzhou_ typically bunk three to a room, and Michael Burnham is no different. Her bunk is made, the surrounding area spartan, but Philippa notes the presence of a single holo affixed to the wall.

A young Michael Burnham posing with her foster mother and brother. None are smiling, but this is of little significance in Vulcan culture.

Michael lowers herself onto her bunk and allows her head fall to backwards against the wall. She closes her eyes, which Philippa imagines must be strained and exhausted from the nearly three hours of staring unblinkingly at quantum numerics.

The captain finally shakes her head.

“The Vulcan Expeditionary Group made a terrible mistake.”

Opening her eyes now, Michael stares at her in surprise. “They don’t make mistakes, Captain,” she manages after a few seconds of stunned silence.

“Then how do you explain what you did on the bridge?” Philippa counters, her tone ever so slightly mischievous.

Michael purses her lips. “Irrelevant. Vulcans would never take such a risk by allowing their ship to proceed so close to the Maw.”

“Their loss,” Philippa states flatly. “This is an impressive achievement, you are going to be quite famous in scientific circles when we get back to Federation space.”

It’s the truth, but there’s no excitement in Michael Burnham’s expression. Her eyes drop shut again, and she slumps against the wall.

Philippa wonders if it’s exhaustion, or if it’s something more. She drops to her knees and starts rummaging in the small dresser stowed under Michael’s bunk.

“There’s a great deal of talent in you, Michael,” the captain muses as she parses through the scant amount of clothing. “You could further pursue quantum physics through Starfleet, it is difficult to serve while taking courses but not impossible.”

“Quantum physics was not my first choice.”

Philippa stops her rummaging and stares up at the woman seated on the bed, whose eyes are still closed.

“Are you joking?”

Burnham’s face remains still; nevertheless, the classic Vulcan eyebrow raise is implied.

“No, of course you’re not.” Rolling her eyes good-naturedly, Philippa tosses a loose Starfleet issue shirt and soft pants onto Michael’s lap. The woman moves slowly, her lids heavy, but she reaches for the zipper of her uniform jacket and starts to tug it off. Philippa turns to give her privacy.

“So what was your first choice, then?”

“Xenoanthropology.” Comes the tired voice behind her.

Philippa nods slowly in understanding. It made perfect sense that a person raised on a different planet by a different species would be interested in the field of alien cultural and sociological study.

“What stopped you?”

She picks up on the noise of sliding fabric, and Michael’s voice, when she answers, is muffled. “A human, studying the study of alien culture while _in_ an alien culture?”

The wry answer makes Philippa smile.

“Everyone at the Vulcan Science Academy would have thought it a joke,” Burnham continues. “And I had enough trouble being taken seriously as it was.”

The woman sighs, and Philippa hears the sound of boots being unzipped. She turns back around to face Michael, who has changed her shirt to the loose black piece, _SHENZ_ printed on the chest in large letters.

“So you chose quantum physics…as a back-up?” The captain’s voice is disbelieving. “You know that is insane, right?”

“Must you always speak in such hyperbole?” Michael deadpans, and Philippa raises both eyebrows. There’s not an ounce of sass in the tone, which makes Philippa all the more convinced that the younger woman means it to be sassy.

The eyebrow raise must be enough of an admonishment, for Michael breaks eye contact first, ducking her head and returning to her boots.

“Amanda, my foster-mother, suggested that if I was uncertain of what to choose, I should take the hardest courses I could. Sarek agreed with her counsel, so…I did.”

Philippa Georgiou stares at the woman across from her, who’d been awarded the Vulcanian Scientific Legion of Honor for work in a field she’d found to be the most challenging out of any she could have chosen.

Deep respect rises in her chest, expanding through her body like a pressure wave.

_Just imagine what she could have done in the field she would have chosen freely._

Michael’s eyes droop alarmingly. She pulls her feet into her bunk and curls onto her side, not bothering to pull the covers over herself or even change out of her uniform pants.

“Michael?” Philippa quickly kneels down so their faces are level. Michael’s eyes flutter weakly open.

“Thank you,” the captain insists, speaking slowly and clearly. “You saved all of us. _Thank you._ ”

It’s a little over-the-top, but Philippa wants the young woman to understand the gravity of what she’s done. _This_ feeling, of fighting with one’s comrades, of saving lives, of making a real difference…this is why Philippa loves being a part of Starfleet. It’s why she loves being _human_.

She wants Michael to understand this as well.

Michael regards the captain with dark, unblinking eyes, and Philippa watches the realization come over her face. Naturally, the young woman doesn’t smile. But Philippa can see the quiet, astonished pride slowly dawning in her expression.

Philippa’s smile is wide enough for both of them.

“Thank _you_ , Captain,” Michael finally murmurs. “Your kick was most timely.”

“Add it to your toolbox, Ensign,” Philippa suggests slyly.

“ _Already...done_.” Michael mumbles, and her breathing slows almost immediately. The captain supposes that the conversation is over.

But it had certainly been an illuminating one.

As she leaves Michael Burnham’s quarters, Philippa’s brain is already working, and she sifts quickly through the possibilities. The acceptance of graduate students currently in active service is rare but not unheard of, particularly when the applicant in question is nothing short of brilliant, and Philippa is certainly willing to vouch for this particular one. She turns her focus towards those schools with outstanding records in the field of xenoanthropology, and composes a short-list of those she’ll be making inquiries with once her shift is done.

 

 

******

 

 

Captain Philippa Georgiou has experienced a great deal of shocking and surprising things in her thirty-plus years as a serving member of Starfleet. On the whole, these experiences have served to harden her reactions, forming a physical composure that is impeccable. By all accounts, Philippa Georgiou has seen it all, and has done so without flinching. The captain’s emotional resolve and discipline are iron in their strength, and she can count the number of times in her life that she has truly, genuinely felt her heart stop, on one hand.          

After Ambassador Sarek’s announcement, it seems that she will have to start using her second hand as well.

“ _How...-_ ” She swallows, clenches her fingers, breathes, and tries again. “How is that possible, Ambassador?”

“There are many things we do not know about the Klingon Empire, advancements in medical technology being only one of them.”

Philippa’s heart restarts with a vengeance, pounding in her chest like she’s just run a marathon, or piloted a shuttlecraft through the Insari Asteroid Belt, _again,_ and she takes another deep breath to wrestle it back under control. Sarek’s holographic form regards her impassively as she does this, and his calm serenity makes the captain feel like she is being disproportionately hysterical in comparison.

“And you know this because…?”

“I have seen her, Captain Georgiou. Spoken with her.” Sarek explains. Philippa stares at him, her complete bewilderment no doubt obvious in her expression, and the Vulcan man elaborates. “Twenty-one years ago, during the terrorist attack on the Vulcan Learning Center, we shared a mind as I brought her back from a state of clinical death.”

Philippa’s eyes widen. Of course she was aware of the attack on the Learning Center, but she hadn’t known that her protégée literally _died_ during it.

The captain wonders just how much more news like this she can take before her heart finally gives out.

“In sharing a mind-meld under such circumstances, a piece of my _katra,_ my soul, joined to hers.” Sarek continues. “It binds us…and allows me to contact her mind from across great distances.”

“Do you know where she is, Sarek?” Philippa demands, feeling only a little breathless at the possibility.

“No. The mind-meld does not work in such a way.” If the Vulcan man feels any disappointment at this, he does not show it.

Philippa’s crushing disappointment lasts only a moment before she starts thinking quickly, eyes darting to the floor and back up as she considers all angles of the situation. “Why did the Klingons take such efforts to save her life? What do they want from her?”

_A bargaining chip, perhaps?_

Philippa’s heart stops at such a thought, at the idea that the enemy would hold Michael Burnham as a hostage to trade for information, for _Discovery’_ s spore drive. Her brain rejects the possibility, not because it is irrational (it is not), but because she never, ever wants to contemplate another situation in which she has to choose between winning a war, and saving Michael Burnham’s life.

_Please, please, not again._

“They want her mind, Captain Georgiou.” Sarek responds, and Philippa relaxes fractionally at the response. “They want her to build wormhole technology for the war effort, so that they can transport their ships anywhere, instantaneously.”

Philippa exhales slowly through her nose. If she weren’t at this very moment talking to a Vulcan, a literal bastion of reserve and control, she would probably start laughing at the sheer _irony._

“Of course they do.”

Sarek raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Philippa hopes that he assumes her response is a reference to Michael’s quantum physics breakthrough in navigating the Maw, and not an implication to anything about the _Discovery_ ’s current mission.

Gods, she typically has better control than _this._

But typically, the people she loves do not come back from the dead a full month and a half later, in the middle of a war, locked up on an enemy warship and under strict orders to perform a scientific miracle.

“I…appreciate you telling me this, Sarek. _Very much_ ,” Philippa manages, using every scrap of her self-control in keeping her tone level, her face even. “However, I cannot help but suspect that comforting me with this… _genuinely_ _wonderful_ piece of news, was not your primary goal when you contacted me.”

“It was not.” Sarek confirms. “However, it was certainly a secondary one.”

Philippa blinks, oddly touched at Sarek’s admission.

“The mind-meld I am able to share with Michael is untraceable to any scanner or tech array. It has no limit concerning distance, and cannot be hacked.”

Philippa’s tactical mind whirs to life as she considers the implications.

“She could be a spy,” the captain breathes. “A source of information for us.”

“What information Michael will be able to obtain as a prisoner will no doubt be scant and limited in its use-“

“Do not underestimate your ward, Sarek,” Philippa states fiercely. “And do not underestimate me.”

Sarek regards her for a brief moment, before nodding once in acquiescence. “It would be difficult to do such a thing, Captain Georgiou.”

Philippa’s lips twitch at the statement. She knows that Michael had not been particularly close to her foster-father, but by the Gods, if the two of them didn’t have the same manner of speaking. The captain wishes Michael were here now, if only so she could tease her about it.

She blinks again, because this is the most light-hearted thought she’s had concerning Michael Burnham in almost two months.

“So...” Philippa shakes it off and transitions seamlessly into planning mode, “…how often are you able to perform this mind-meld?”

“The distance between us causes the connection to be physically taxing in the extreme.” Sarek’s response is intensely clinical. “With keeping the time of our conversations to a minimum, I would suggest once every eight Earth cycles.”

“This will give you ample time to rest between bursts?” Philippa asks for clarification.

“Ample, no.” Sarek denies. “Sufficient…yes.”

Philippa sighs, looking away from the hologram as she considers the statement.

“This may well be a long-term mission, Ambassador. The war shows no sign of ending soon, and if Michael’s location is untraceable as you say, then extraction could be a long way off. Months…years…”

_If even possible at all_ , a darker voice inside the captain’s head whispers, but Philippa continues. “Your continued health will be paramount to our success. To this end, it is crucial that you maintain your physical wellbeing. I urge you to take as much time as you need to rest between projections.”

Sarek listens to her counsel with nary a flicker of emotion on his face, but the amount of time that he takes to contemplate it is more than enough to alert Philippa as to what the Vulcan man is feeling.

_He wants her back as well._

“You are logical in your advice, Captain Georgiou.” Sarek finally nods. Philippa can’t help but feel a twinge of pride, this was no little praise from a Vulcan.

“I will extend the amount of time between the mind-melds. Eleven Earth cycles will be…ample. More than sufficient.”

“Good.” Philippa nods shortly. “We can reevaluate in the future, as needed.”

“Very well.” Sarek agrees. “I have information for you presently. I suggest you record this conversation, so as to preserve its accuracy.”

Sarek’s transmission ends twelve minutes, eight seconds later, and Philippa’s mind is all but swimming in the surprisingly huge quantity of information Michael was able to glean during her time in captivity.

Most of it is not even remotely tactical.

_Nevertheless, it will be useful,_ Philippa knows. Information on Klingon starship architecture, the composition of their ships’ atmospheres, the structuring of their software, the hierarchy of their scientist teams, a scant few names of their leadership…

This, the captain can work with. She begins to pace, plans and strategies coming together in her mind, ways to restructure their away-teams for greater effectiveness, plans to infiltrate science outposts, possible construction of Klingon-specific software viruses, she will have to get this information out to the rest of the Fleet, it could be critical to the war effort-

-and with that, Philippa’s train of thought grinds to a halt. She stops dead in her tracks and swears under her breath.

_How in the hell am I going to tell Starfleet command that Michael Burnham, the dead mutineer, is feeding me information on the enemy via an impossible Vulcan mind-meld?_

The entire postulate is completely, hilariously ridiculous, and even if it weren’t, the admirals have no love for her former commander. Philippa knows this, she hears this at every meeting, every holo-conference, every time she so much as looks at any of the higher-ups and sees them looking back at her with pity in their eyes.

Michael Burnham is their scapegoat, their way to escape the blame for the war with the Klingons. The targeted smear campaign against the _U.S.S. Shenzhou_ ’s former first officer has been nothing short of brutal, half-truths twisted into misinformation twisted into lies so vicious, they make Philippa want to snap her PADD in half. Even though the idea that a single person could somehow be responsible for a massive intergalactic conflict is laughable, it works, and Starfleet and its overseers have escaped fault in the eyes of the public.

_One might think they believe their own slander._ Philippa crosses her arms over her chest and looks at the window of her ready room, regarding the banner of stars and planets laid out before her.

She considers the possible outcomes, running through simulations in her head in a Vulcan process that Michael described to her many years ago as “an excellent strategy for winning at chess and predicting favorable outcomes concerning interpersonal interactions.”

Philippa shakes her head ruefully, because Michael had used the technique on her for years without her knowledge, and the outcomes…well, they certainly hadn’t been unfavorable _._

Upon reaching the end of the simulations, the captain knows that to try to convince Starfleet command of the veracity of her source would use up more time and energy than she currently wishes to spare. Philippa has friends and comrades in other Fleet captains; she can certainly disseminate the information personally, if and when needed, but for now…

Philippa sighs. She leans her forehead against the window and closes her eyes, grateful to her former protégée for teaching her to think like a Vulcan.

For now, she will continue to captain the _Discovery,_ a job that requires her full and undivided attention, and in eleven days, Sarek will contact her again with more information that Michael has passed to him…

_Michael…_

_Michael, who is alive…_

_Alive, and a prisoner of T’Kuvma himself…_

Her shoulders hunch, her knees go weak at the realization finally hitting full-force. Philippa clenches a hand over her mouth, but can’t quite control the hitching in her breathing, nor the tears beginning to pool in her eyes, because somewhere out there, in the belly of a Klingon warship, Michael Burnham’s heart beats, her lungs breath, her deep brown eyes glow with _life_.

What Philippa is feeling right now, it isn’t quite relief.

It isn’t quite joy.

It isn’t quite terror.

But it is very, _very_ close to all three emotions, and it is completely devastating.

In the privacy of her ready room, Philippa shakes and trembles with the revelation that Sarek brought to her, and feels that something deep in her core is reforming.

_A second chance..._

A chance to make up for past decisions…a chance for redemption…

_A chance to save her._

Finally, Philippa squares her shoulders.

Her chest expands in the deepest, most soothing breath she has taken since the day of the Battle at the Binary Stars, and with a brisk nod at her reflection, the captain strides out of her ready room and onto the bridge. Hopes, plans, and possibilities wink in and out of her brain like fireflies, even as her heart clenches in horror at the thought of Michael Burnham enslaved in the service of one of the most violent races in the universe.

For better or worse, it’s the _most_ Philippa Georgiou has felt in one month, twenty-seven days…

Forty-six minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got room in the framework of the story for one or two more flashbacks, and I'm running out of imagination-juice, so I'm gonna crowdsource this one.
> 
> What do you guys want to see?


	6. The Vulcan Pep Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here have some sexual tension with a hefty portion of angst.

 

_One year, eleven months, five days before the Battle at the Binary Stars_

 

Many of the crew are guilty of a critical error in thinking that, because Commander Michael Burnham was raised Vulcan, that she is out-of-touch with her emotions. In reality, her background only makes her more conscious of her thoughts and feelings, her daily meditations uncovering those strange urges, both logical and illogical, and she contemplates and works through them as if they were merely another physics problem to solve.

Thus, she remembers the exact day that she felt her heart pulse erratically in her chest when Captain Georgiou walked onto the bridge and greeted her with a nod and a smile.

One year, four months, twelve days ago.

She can recall the precise moment during her meditations when she realized that her joy over a certain completed away mission was not due to its success in the face of incredible odds, but the fact that Captain Georgiou had made it back safely. Her team had dropped out of contact for several days, and it had taken Michael only six seconds of reflection to realize that her pounding anxiety and inability to stomach food was due to worry over her friend’s wellbeing.

No one else’s wellbeing, she discovered. Only Philippa’s.

Had she been a human-raised human, with greater knowledge of social norms and commonly accepted parameters for romance and partnership, perhaps Michael would have stifled her emotions then and there.

However…as a Vulcan-raised human with a scientifically driven mind, Michael Burnham had to admit a powerful curiosity in the way she considered her captain, her mentor, her friend. She had never experienced such feelings before, constrained as she was within Vulcan culture, and had a keen interest in studying the feelings and their natural evolution.

The ensigns would call it a _crush_.

Michael had toyed with the term for several months, before discarding it. She has seen first-hand the way that the younger members of the _Shenzhou_ behave when in the throes of said descriptor, and she bears no relation to these actions, nor does she want to.

She is under control, both physically and mentally. She has no way to stifle her leaping heart when she sees the captain in the corridors, but she can stop the blood from reaching her cheeks and causing her to flush. Unable (and unwilling) to stop herself from taking immense joy in their sparring sessions, Michael is nevertheless quite strict in her commitment to remaining professional, and does not allow touches and pins to continue for longer than necessary.

 _Perhaps being human has its upsides,_ Michael considers as she takes Philippa to the floor yet again. They are both dressed for sparring, stripped down to tank tops and bare feet, and Michael can appreciate the feeling of skin-to-skin contact. Not _too much_ , of course, but she is aware of the human need for touch and tactility, and does not crucify herself for desiring such a thing.

“This is the sixth time I have pinned you, Captain. Should I be concerned?”

Philippa huffs out a chuckle before accepting Michael’s proffered hand and allowing herself to be pulled to her feet.

“Perhaps I am merely not so young as I was, Number One.”

Michael’s skeptical eyebrow is her only response. Just last week, she had watched the captain singlehandedly overcome a guard of three other humanoids, all males over two meters in height.

“I think that Andorian security unit from the away mission to Illaris would disagree.”

“They might, but they have never seen me in my prime,” Philippa parries.

“I disagree, Captain, I think that they very much saw you in your prime.”

Philippa accepts the flattery with a smile and a nod, and puts her fists back up to guard her chest.

The captain is an excellent martial artist, Michael knows this from both experience and from their personal conversations about the woman’s upbringing. Philippa’s mother had wanted her to be a dancer, but hadn’t blinked an eye when her daughter had insisted on taking lessons in aikido and traditional kung-fu as well.

This is no more apparent than now, when Philippa lashes out with a taped fist, followed swiftly by an uppercut with her other hand. Michael blocks the fist with her upper arm, accepts the secondary blow to the gut as a necessary sacrifice, and gets in close, striking with an elbow at the woman’s face.

Her own martial arts background is of Vulcan, and the two styles could not be more different. The captain’s form is acrobatic and graceful, while Michael is solidly, brutally efficient. Vulcans do not care much for grace, for style and artistry in a pursuit meant to keep oneself safe, as well as cause as much damage to the other party as possible.

In this way, with a slightly softened strike to the ribs and a twisting arm bar, Michael takes Philippa to the mat once more.

“You’ve improved a great deal, Number One.” Philippa smiles from her position beneath Michael.

Of course, Michael Burnham understands how this _could_ look to an outsider. Herself on top of the captain, sweating and panting with faces close together, bodies exposed well beyond what is considered appropriate during regular duty.

Not that she spends a great deal of time contemplating this during her post-spar shower, or in the privacy of her bunk afterwards.

“Still, I do have a few tricks I have been saving.”

Michael blinks, and misses it. Suddenly she’s on the mat, flat on her stomach, arms held behind her in a vice.

Philippa’s musical laughter rings out, and Michael finds that she can’t even be upset at the move. To be caught on one’s stomach is considered defeat in most forms of humanoid combat; it is an untenable position from which escape is nearly impossible.

“Show me that one?” Michael grates out, her cheek pressed hard against the mat. Philippa releases her arms and allows Michael to roll to her knees, and she lies peacefully down on her back, arms positioned the same way they’d been when Michael had thrown her to the ground.

Michael’s heart races as she climbs back on top of the captain, but she keeps her breathing even, her expression neutral, even though the room seems to have filled with some sort of invisible nerve gas that makes her feel as though she’s swallowed a live wire.

Instead she focuses on her friend’s face, her supine body. She grips Philippa’s wrists, pinning her to the floor as she had before, so she can demonstrate the grappling move that had allowed her escape.

Her fingertips brush over the captain’s wrist, and Michael takes note of her pulse.

Elevated.

Elevated to the _extreme._

Her cheeks are slightly flushed, Michael notes, but they _have_ been working hard, to be fair. Before she can continue along that line of inquiry, Philippa flips her again, slower this time so Michael can fully grasp the motions.

Michael replays the moves in her mind’s eye in her pinned state.

“That move would not have worked, had I held you to the ground with all of my strength.”

Philippa releases her, and now that Michael can see her face, she sees the sparkle in the woman’s eye.

“Ah, but you didn’t. Not the first time, nor the second.”

Michael nods slowly, looking away from the captain as she puts the pieces together.

“You’ve been letting me win this entire time. You’ve been hiding your own strength so I would hold back…just so that you could use that move successfully.”

" _Very_ good, Michael." Philippa smiles again, downright _impishly._ “Humans call it the long game. Or the long con, whichever you prefer.”

“Why?” Michael asks.

“Well…I suppose that as a species, we enjoy naming strategies-”

Michael shakes her head, cutting the captain off. “No, why choose to do such a thing now? Nearly two years we have been sparring, and this is the first time you’ve incorporated strategy.”

“Hm, a long time.” Philippa acknowledges. “Clearly this was overdue.”

She goes silent for a moment as she considers her answer. Finally, she shrugs. “I suppose I thought it would be fun to surprise you. You are intensely unmovable, Number One.”

“That’s kind of you to say, Captain.”

The response is met with a playful hit to her arm. “That was not a quite a compliment, and you know it.”

Michael doesn’t recall Philippa’s elevated pulse until her evening meditation. Her brain skims over the possibilities, but she quickly realizes that her logic is being swayed by emotion, the emotion being _hope._

She pulls away from her unhelpful meditations, falling back on an old strategy that she still uses from time to time.

A scientific approach is one of the few truly unemotional tactics that sentient beings have by which to contemplate the world that they live in, and it is the approach that Michael Burnham chooses to examine this particular situation. And as an experienced and decorated scientist, she concludes that a singular data point is all but useless in any scientific trial.

This merits further study.

 

 

*

 

 

Michael is grateful to her past self for committing every part of that day to her memory. Every sound, every smell, every clench of her muscles during the spar, every smooth brush of Philippa’s skin along her own, the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled, the melody of her laughter…

_How could I have not realized then, how fortunate I was to experience such a thing?_

It is now six months, fourteen days into Michael Burnham’s stint of captivity aboard Unknown Klingon Science Vessel. And there is no end in sight.

Her work is slow by nature, relying on electromagnetic and gravitational data transmitted from probes sent out to comb the entirety of the known universe for quantum irregularities, black holes, wormholes, and other such time-space anomalies. The data is sent directly to Michael’s terminal, where she processes it via programs she’d constructed, and via her own brain.

Thought experiments were how the human physicist Albert Einstein made his famous breakthrough in the field of theoretical astrophysics, and Michael supposes that they will enable her own breakthrough as well.

But it is becoming hard to think.

Michael knows, logically, that humans require a degree of sunlight to function optimally, that Vitamin D is an essential nutrient garnered from the ultraviolet rays of yellow stars. She _knows,_ then, that this despair is only chemical, that her inability to clasp onto a shred of hope, of happiness, for longer than four point two seconds, is only due to the imbalance of neurotransmitters.

 _But by_ _all that is good_ …Michael hunches over until her forehead contacts the pane of transparasteel in front of her.

Her current circumstances certainly don’t help.

Humans were never meant to live in captivity, Michael reflects. And they certainly weren’t designed to live in Klingon captivity.

The atmosphere on the Klingon ship is different. Unnoticeable at first, but after such a long time, Michael registers the shift in her body. Well into month six of imprisonment, she is unable to sleep soundly, and the time in which she is able to remain on her feet is decreasing.

Her current record is twenty-seven minutes, eight seconds.

Michael aches every morning when she wakes up, in her ribs, in her legs, in her arms. Her eyes hurt from staring at data screens for many hours a day in the low light of the science bay, and her head throbs for hours after concluding her work. She speaks broken Klingon with her captors in an attempt to fit in, to _blend_ in, to try to draw as little attention to herself as possible. She doesn’t remember the last time she spoke pure Standard.

This doesn’t change much. She is still isolated. Still a defector. Still a mutineer.

The Klingon techs call her _Maghwl’._ She’d thought it a butchering of her name at first, but upon looking up the word in the translation programs in her data terminal, she now knows the truth.

_Maghwl’._

They call her _Traitor._

So, in a way, there’s not much she could have ever done to change her degenerate status aboard the Klingon vessel.

The Klingons no longer seek her out specifically to fight, but this does not stop them from landing jabs when they can, aiming the odd elbow or absent-minded kick that leave Michael crumpled in agony on the floor. This happens too often for her to recover entirely, but not often enough for her to become inured to the treatment.

She wonders if this is intentional on her captors’ part.

 _I was a Starfleet Commander once._ The thought slips through Michael’s aching head with an odd sort of whimsy. _I served under Captain Philippa Georgiou._

Michael can’t quite remember the details of the woman’s face right now, but she does remember the _Shenzhou._ She walks through her memories of the ship, of her _life,_ whenever she possibly can, to remain sane.

Danby Connor, Anton Nambue, Troy Januzzi, Keyla Detmer, Saru, _Philippa Georgiou…_

Michael breathes raggedly, because she wants to go _home._

But home no longer exists.

_Your fault…your fault…your fault…_

The self-flagellating thoughts echo in Michael’s brain, and she turns the volume up higher and higher until she can hardly bear it. Similar to running herself to exhaustion or punching hard surfaces until her knuckles bleed, screaming at herself in her own mind is a way that Michael Burnham can make herself suffer.

Such a fool she was, to think that she could stop a war.

Such a stupid, desperate _fool_ to think that Philippa Georgiou might… _might_ …requite her.

She had been so _certain,_ after months of data collection, running statistical models in her brain with each and every result pointing her towards a wondrous conclusion, and yet.. _._

…and yet…

Michael is not exactly certain, but she suspects that she overplayed her hand. The night of the captain’s birthday, two months before that day at the binary stars, a night that had seemed so _perfect_ , wonderful enough for Michael to allow just a small fraction of the love she felt to run rampant in her expressions and her actions…

…but from there on out, Philippa had only pulled away.

_And if ever I was requited, I certainly am no longer._

The shame of betraying her captain during the attempted mutiny presses down upon Michael with the gravitational force of ten neutron stars. The blank twist of Philippa’s features, her face trembling with a fury that Michael had never seen before, let alone directed at _her…_ all of it makes her burn, makes her double over with clenched teeth and stinging eyes at random intervals every day, no matter where she is or what she might be doing at the time.

Mutineer. Failure. _Maghwl’._

Eyes closed, Michael attempts to school her breathing. She grits her teeth against the howling loneliness, the wracking grief, the soul-sucking _hopelessness._

The episode will pass if she lets it.

When she opens her eyes, Sarek is in front of her.

 

_“Michael.”_

_From his tenuous outline and washed-out form, Michael knows that this mind-meld is barely sustained. Sarek’s connections with her mind have been growing steadily weaker, no doubt a result of Michael’s worsening physical state._

_“Captain Georgiou requires information.”_

_Michael’s jaw clenches. “Captain Georgiou will have to wait, because I have none.”_

_Sarek’s face is as impassive as it always is._

_“You always have some form of usable information when I contact you, be it of strategic value or otherwise. For you to have none right now, as you say…”_

_His trailing off is merely another way of communication, Michael knows this from years of living with the man._

_“Every day is the same. Every hour is the same.” Her response is an emotional one, but the tone is measured. Sarek’s presence always seems to draw out the calm in her._

_“My Klingon coworkers talk about the same topics, I overhear the same conversations, day in…and day out. The stars swim together outside of the windows. I have seen nothing useful.”_

_“I cannot help you, Sarek.” Michael shakes her head, tears pooling in her eyes. “I cannot help_ her. _”_

_Sarek regards the explanation with a stoic expression. Michael expects him to vanish, for the connection to end, since she has nothing to offer him. It would be deeply illogical for her guardian to put himself at physical risk for no gain whatsoever._

_“Your control is excellent, Michael, considering your current circumstances. However, our minds our joined, and I sense your despair.”_

_Michael looks away._

_“You have endured Klingon captivity for over six months. You are the only person to ever survive for so long under these circumstances.”_

_“I am surviving, Sarek…” Michael murmurs. “But for what purpose? I am building a machine of war for the enemy.”_

_Confusion swimming in her eyes, Michael looks at her guardian in genuine bewilderment. “Why am I doing such a thing?”_

_Sarek regards her impassively. “Because you decided that you wished to remain alive, all those months ago. Tell me, Michael, what was your reasoning on that day?”_

_It’s a struggle to remember, but Michael tries anyway. Moments slip by as she brings herself back to the day she regained consciousness after being run through by a mek’leth._

_“I thought of…my actions at the binary stars.” Her words are staggered, her face slack from the exhaustion of dredging up the memory. She can barely sort fact from fiction. What she had thought that day, versus what she_ should have _thought._

_“I figured…I had an opportunity. On a Klingon ship behind enemy lines…T’Kuvma guaranteeing my survival if I worked on this project.” Michael looks toward Sarek, using his solid presence to anchor herself in reality. “I thought…I could do something to help. Maybe…find some sort of redemption.”_

_Michael drops her gaze, and she recalls the words her captain had spoken to her in her ready-room, all those months ago, after her escape from the brig._

_“What an ego I had.”_

_The space of the mind-meld is silent for several moments. Finally, Sarek speaks up._

_“It seems that I was wrong, these past several months, in giving you only enough time to relay your information to me before I collapsed our connection.”_

_Michael looks up in confusion._

_“My reason for doing so was to maintain my own physical health for the continued success of our communication; however, I disregarded a critical element of this endeavor, and that is you, Michael.”_

_Sarek’s projected form begins to pace around her now._

_“With your information on Klingon software, Captain Georgiou was able to outmaneuver several war vessels by overloading their systems with a specialized virus. They were summarily destroyed, saving an Andorian settlement from certain annihilation.”_

_Michael’s eyes widen._

_“Using your information concerning your ship’s positioning in a convoy two months and four days ago, the_ Discovery _predicted Klingon formation tactics in a proximal skirmish, and the battle was won with zero casualties to the Federation.”_

_Sarek stops his pacing to return to a position in front of her._

_“The information you pass along is not always useful, Michael. But when it is…”_

_His left eyebrow raises._

_Something deep inside of Michael trembles. Sarek is comforting_ _her, Michael knows this, but somehow the act of kindness only stabs like a knife, like a scalpel cutting into an infected wound, ripping her open somewhere deep and releasing all manner of toxins and poison._

 _It_ hurts.

_“Sarek…” Michael finally manages to grate out. “I fear I am going slowly insane in this ship.” The words come out as a gasp, as a whimper, and they do not stop coming. “I am locked in an eternal night …time does not seem to pass …my captors wound me for sport…the very atmosphere poisons me. And my work is nearly half-done.”_

_The implication hangs in the air between them._

_When Michael finishes the machine, she will no longer be useful. And the Klingons will kill her._

_“I-…I--“ Michael staggers. She looks her guardian, her foster-father, in the eye._

_“I am losing myself, Sarek.”_

_In another life, Michael would be ashamed of such an admission to a man whose approval she desperately craved. But right now…sick, aching, humiliated, all but enslaved…Michael couldn’t give a damn._

_She wants…_

_She wants him to tell her the answer._

How do I not be afraid?

_Though separated by hundreds of thousands of light-years, Sarek and Michael stare at each other as if they are two feet apart._

_Suddenly, Sarek disappears._

_In his place stands Amanda Grayson._

_The woman looks young, far younger than when Michael had last seen her over a full year ago. The Vulcan robes she wears are a style long outdated on the Vulcan homeworld, but the warm compassion in her eyes causes something to twinge in Michael’s memory._

_Before Michael can open her mouth to voice her confusion, Amanda begins to speak._

_“I know it isn’t what you’re used to, sweetheart...”_

_The surroundings fade and reform._

_Michael stands now in her childhood bedroom on Shi’Kahr, the warm sun beaming in through the translucent curtains at the window. Judging by the height of the dresser and bed relative to her waist…she is a child again as well._

_Amanda kneels before her, kind face filled with sympathy._

_With love._

_"_ _…but we want you to be at home here._ I _want you to be happy here, Michael.”_

_Amanda’s pale hands clasp Michael’s dark ones, her eyes wide and soft with kindness. The gesture feels like one her mother might have made, and though Amanda Grayson bears no physical resemblance to Tiana Burnham, Michael understands that this woman…_

_…Amanda…_

_…she cares like her mother once did._

_She all but throws herself into Amanda’s arms, tears of both grief and love trickling from her eyes. Amanda holds her tightly, hands running up and down her back in soothing patterns, and for a long moment, Michael forgets about the attack on Doctari Alpha, the flames and screams and destruction. She forgets about her parents, dead at the hands of alien monsters._

_Right now, she is safe._

_She is loved._

_Michael does not know how much time she spends wallowing in this memory. Perhaps minutes._

_Perhaps years._

_Finally, finally, her surroundings flicker and pull apart, revealing Sarek once again. He is pale, his features drawn, and Michael approaches him in wide-eyed horror._

_“Sarek!”_

_“Do not be concerned,” he manages. “It is merely physical strain of sustaining our connection for such a long period of time.”_

_“Of course…” Michael looks askance at her Vulcan guardian, who had just plunged her into a memory of one of her most powerful experiences of love and safety. “But Sarek, we are sharing a mind. You_ feel _what I_ feel _, the risks of exposing yourself to raw emotion in this way-“_

_“-are worth it.” Sarek finishes her statement._

_Michael gazes at him in astonishment._

_“You must live, Michael. You must survive, not to pass information along, but to finish your work.”_

_His form is fading, the connection is slipping._

_“Your work is the key to ending this war, not because of the nature of the machine, but because_ you _are the one building it. I am certain you will find a way to turn the tables on your captors.”_

_“I am certain…that you will find the answer.”_

 

Michael blinks, and is back in her cell aboard the Klingon science vessel.

She sits still for a long time.

In front of her small window, her dark eyes reflect the stars glinting from the depths of the cosmos. The universe in its entirety is laid out in front of her, each pinprick of light representing the wisdom of billions of years of stellar evolution.

Somewhere out there are Sarek and Amanda.

Somewhere, across those stars, is Philippa Georgiou.

With a brisk nod, Michael finally rises to her feet. Her body is filled with new lightness brought on by a sudden lack of despair. Quantum equations sing in her head, wormholes wink in and out of existence. A vision for what her glorious device will one day achieve plays across her brain like a holo-vid.

Michael knows what she is going to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm getting carried away with this fic you guys. I used to have a life y'know, I used to go to the gym and hang out with friends and such.
> 
> Also I'm disregarding the timeline posited by Desperate Hours, which says that Michael was promoted to first officer one year before the Battle at the Binary Stars, cause it just doesn't seem like enough time to me.


	7. Choose Your Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'know when I started this story it was very Michael-centric and I was like dammit I gotta make Georgiou come to life somehow...
> 
> I may have overcompensated.
> 
> This chapter was originally going to be way shorter but then Georgiou started being a badass and I couldn't make her stop

 

Vulcans don’t make the same mistake twice.

And neither will Philippa Georgiou.

She fires first on the Klingons. Every time, without fail. Her crew is a well-oiled machine at this point, they know the drill and stick to it. They stand by her throughout it all.

Only those who served under her on the _Shenzhou_ ever demonstrate hesitation. She feels Lieutenant Detmer side-eyeing her when she gives the order to bypass protocol 18.12.7 to give chase to a Klingon science vessel attempting to flee a battle. Second Officer Saru gives her a stunned look when she orders the capture of the tardigrade, and cracks the secret to its spore jump capabilities.

“ _We see something we don’t understand and immediately cast judgment?”_

Michael’s words echo in her ear, and even after Commander Landry’s career-ending injuries at its claws, the decision to release the odd, deadly creature into the spore bay is an easy one to make.

The decision to stab the tardigrade with drive needles and use its inate navigational abilities to save the mines at Corvan II is less easy, but it is one that she makes nonetheless.

In a previous life, Philippa Georgiou had proceeded by-the-book. But the book was not written for times of war.

Late at night, when she is off-duty and safe in her quarters, in the holodeck, in Stamets’ lab, Philippa allows herself to feel remorse for her actions. The captain bears the full and total responsibility for the capture of the tardigrade, for turning the peaceful creature into a weapon, and she cannot help but wonder what Michael would think, what Michael would _say_ if she knew _…_

Michael Burnham, a peaceful, _brilliant_ woman, enslaved in a Klingon science laboratory and forced to help her captors fight their bloody, brutal war…

The parallels are not lost on Philippa, and she drowns her sorrow by fighting Klingon warriors on the holodeck until her knuckles snap like dry twigs.

Guilt aside, the captain understands full well that she will _never_ know what her former first officer would say about her actions, unless she can get the woman back from the clutches of the Klingons. And that won’t happen unless they win this war.

The mycelium network rings with the force of the spore jumps.

 

 

For all that the _U.S.S. Discovery_ is a science vessel, Philippa Georgiou has witnessed far more fighting and battles than she has scientific breakthroughs. She orders the deaths of more enemies than she cares to count; nevertheless, the statistics are logged and saved to the Starfleet database as a matter of protocol.

Someday, when this bloody war is over, perhaps the captain will look them up. But not now.

Philippa holds out for every eleventh day, because every eleventh day comes confirmation from Ambassador Sarek that Michael Burnham lives. Every eleventh day comes new information, pieces and scraps that she will build into strategies to beat the Klingons.

It is illogical, but the captain sometimes feels that these conversations with Sarek are something more than simple information exchange. She feels like each one of them is almost like a friendly little wave, a candle in a window, a beacon of light from somewhere far away. Like Michael is signaling her, telling her to not give up.

They are whimsical, fanciful thoughts, but Philippa Georgiou understands the importance of hope, and will take what she can get.

The information Michael passes to her is sometimes useful, sometimes not, but Philippa appreciates every ounce of it. Most of it is mundane, which makes the bits and pieces that are not seem even more useful. The Klingon chatter that Michael picks up from the other war scientists and technicians is by far the best source of information they have, and through it, Philippa learns the of the development of new technologies for the war.

 _Shield-slicers,_ an additional overlay for Klingon ships that will allow their vessels to part starship shields like a curtain.

Modified cloaking devices to hide stellar mines and debris from unsuspecting Federation ships.

And of course, the ever-present _wormhole device_ that looms over all of their heads like a specter of doom. The machine, if ever completed, will be the end of everything, but completion is a long ways off. This one of Philippa’s very few comforts during this horrible time.

Her crew is intensely curious about how she knows so much about the Klingon enemy, Philippa senses this, but the possibility of spies and sleeper agents is always present in her mind. Rumors of Klingon brainwashing facilities were validated when the _U.S.S. Buran_ was nearly destroyed from the inside by a single ensign, thus Philippa is reluctant to fully trust anyone beneath her.

She would sooner _die_ than risk compromising her source.

In the beginning, Starfleet command expressed concern over the inexplicable tactics and strategies she employs with Michael’s information, but the tides of war are ever-shifting, and the admiralty has a great many other matters to worry about. The _Discovery_ is self-sufficient and brutally successful, so they leave Georgiou to her work, for the most part.

 

 

Her capture by T’Kuvma’s second-in-command is a definite anomaly after months of sitting in the captain’s chair.

“It isn’t possible.” She stares at Lieutenant Ash Tyler, who looks to be only a light puff of wind away from death. They both sit propped against the metal support struts of the cell, the screams of other captors echoing from somewhere deep within the Klingon ship, but Georgiou can barely hear them, not when she is staring an impossibility in the face. “No one survives Klingon captivity for this long.”

The words drip with utter falsehood. Georgiou knows the real truth, but she says them anyway.

“What good are you to them?” She demands. Ash Tyler’s face grows cold and ashamed.

“The captain of this ship…she seems to have taken a liking to me…” He manages. The man’s face is slick with cold sweat, his hair greasy and unkempt. His once sand-colored skin is now pale and sallow, and he smells like someone who has not seen the inside of a shower for many months. “Her name is-“

“-L’Rell, yes.” Georgiou completes. “Lady L’Rell.”

Tyler gives her surprised look. “Wow…Starfleet’s gathered some serious information since I’ve been thrown in here.”

Georgiou manages a weak chuckle. “You have no idea.”

The name of T’Kuvma’s second in command is well known to Starfleet; however, it is Michael Burnham’s information gathered from Klingon scuttlebutt that has allowed Georgiou to put an identity to the woman.

Lady L’Rell.

Lord T’Kuvma’s opposite in almost every way. Where he is honorable, she is underhanded. Where he is straightforward, she is twists, turns, and trapdoors. Where T’Kuvma inspires, L’Rell _terrifies._ The mixed-House daughter of spies, the interrogator, the _butcher_ , slippery as a snake and clever as a fox; Michael’s Klingon coworkers speak of her with fear, disgust, and intense respect.

Second in command is more of a hypothesis than anything else, a Federation term that does not quite fit the very much non-Federation Klingon culture. The actual command structure of T’Kuvma’s inner circle is somewhat vague, and there is no real indication that L’Rell would assume T’Kuvma’s place if the Klingon messiah were killed. However, it is clear from every source that Lady L’Rell is T’Kuvma’s most trusted advisor, his right-hand, his confidante…

 

His Number One.

 

Through sunken, weary eyes, Ash Tyler regards Georgiou with a surprisingly piercing gaze.

“You’re Captain Georgiou, aren’t you?”

“Now, now!” Harry Mudd speaks up in his annoying cheerful voice. “You wouldn’t want to associate yourself with the likes of her, Tyler.”

Both Tyler and Georgiou turn to look at Mudd, confusion obvious in their faces.

Mudd swings his legs where he perches on the cold metal bench, waggling his finger at them both. “The captain who lost us the Binary Star battle. Oh yes, I’ve done my research. Your commander told you to fire on the Klingon flagship, and you did _nothing_ …but to lock her away in the brig.”

“How do you know this, Mudd?” Georgiou demands, her eyes hard as flint.

“Never you mind, Pippa my dear.” Mudd sing-songs. “Oh sure, the Federation blames Michael Burnham for the war, but I believe…”

He pauses dramatically again. “…that I know the truth. _You_ cost us the day, Captain Philippa Georgiou. You and your…” Mudd waves a hand as he searches for the words, “rule-following, holier-than-thou, captain-y ways.”

“Shut up, Mudd!” Tyler snaps, leaping to Georgiou’s defense even though he can barely sit upright. Georgiou remembers that the man has lost his captain, and has likely latched onto her as a substitute; nevertheless, the action warms her heart.

Mudd glares at Tyler in response. “Why should I? I’m right!”

His voice drops to a tone that is no longer light and airy. Now it is pure menace.

“You and Starfleet, proceeding by your rules and regulations that _you_ make for yourselves, no oversight, no checks or balances, never concerned with those little guys that you _screw over_ by it.” Eyes a little wild, Mudd fixes Georgiou with a hateful gaze, and she remembers suddenly that this man is an intergalactic criminal. For all of his exaggerated wackiness he likely has a great deal of blood on his hands.

“I used to have a good life, y’know? A respectable business, the _love_ of my Stella…till _Starfleet_ decided to boldly go where no one has gone before, and pissed off the people who didn’t _want_ them there. Just look at me now!”

Mudd gestures broadly at himself, seated on a cold metal platform in the belly of a Klingon prison vessel.

“This is your comeuppance, this war. And I…” Mudd twitches, breathing in deeply like a man released from captivity. An insane smile threatens his lips.

“… _I_ _savor it._ ”

Georgiou regards him with a bored stare. “Are you done, Mudd?”

“Nope!” Mudd spins his feet onto the bench and lies down on his back. He folds his hands beneath his head as if reclining on a lounge chair somewhere warm and peaceful, and not on a hard platform in the middle of a Klingon prison vessel. “But I’ll take a breather, give you time to take all that in.”

His silence is a blessing, but Georgiou cannot help but feel cold at his accusations, which came far too close for comfort. She feels, rather than sees, Tyler’s questioning stare aimed in her general direction.

“It is true.” She states flatly. “All of what he said, it’s true.”

Tyler looks towards his hands as he considers her words. “I heard…from other Starfleet prisoners…a little bit of what went down. They all said the Binaries happened because Commander Burnham disturbed a Klingon relic. They said…”

The man scrunches his face as he attempts to make sense of what is happening. “…they said that--, that she went _crazy_ , that she tried to overthrow you-“

“-false,” Philippa denies softly. “She did attempt a mutiny, that much is correct, but as to why? She insisted we fire upon T’Kuvma’s flagship, without provocation.”

The captain looks at Tyler now. “She insisted we fire first, against Starfleet protocol, to predicate any attack by the Klingons. And I overruled her…”

Tyler stares at her with wide, dark eyes.

“I do not know if heeding her counsel would have changed anything. A war of this _scale_ …” Georgiou shakes her head. “…it seems so very unlikely that any one or two players could have stopped it.”

_But perhaps we could have…_

The memory of T’Kuvma’s mocking sneer, of Michael’s limp body, the shadows and flames on the destroyed bridge of the Klingon flagship, Georgiou’s finger squeezing off the shot too late, _too late, too late…_

Her voice drops. “But if you _are_ going to blame Michael Burnham, Tyler…then you must blame me as well, for I am just as guilty.”

“Good boy, Stuart!” Mudd praises, and Georgiou and Tyler both whip their heads towards him. Mudd’s massive beetle is scuttling across the floor of the cell towards Mudd, Tyler’s roughspun cracker clutched in its pincers.

Georgiou’s mouth twists in fury as she watches the beetle deliver the cracker into Mudd’s waiting hands. The man had acted the fool, but in doing so, had dredged up her emotional turmoil to distract them both while his insect took their food.

She makes a mental note to never underestimate Harry Mudd again.

 

 

 

“Captain Georgiou…” L’Rell all but purrs. “Tell me…have you ever been tortured?”

Georgiou stares impassively from her restraints, already crusted with the dried blood of former prisoners.

“Mmm.” L’Rell seems to shrug at her lack of response. The Klingon interrogator is small for her species, and her pure white robe is a definite contrast to the murky torture chamber they both occupy. Her voice carries an accent that Georgiou would go so far to describe as regal, truly a surprise from an alien woman whose first language is nearly unintelligible from the grunts and snarls of animals.

 _Xenophobic,_ Georgiou chides herself, _but perhaps understandable considering the last seven months of brutality._

L’Rell continues to pace around the stockade where Georgiou stands immobilized, but the captain can feel her grin, her anticipation. “You were part of that adorable little raiding party that tried to kill my Lord T’Kuvma…”

“ _Capture_ ,” Georgiou corrects lightly. “Your messiah hardly deserved an honorable death from us.”

L’Rell completes her circle and stops in front of Georgiou again. She smiles wickedly. “You are a wise woman, Captain Georgiou…and yet…so utterly _foolish…_ ”

Leaning in now, L’Rell bares her jagged Klingon teeth, all but giggling with genuine mirth. “You should have listened to your commander that day…” Her voice drops to a whisper, lips less than an inch away from Georgiou’s left ear. “… _you should have fired first_...”

The captain remains rigid while L’Rell runs large fingers through her hair, tracing her face almost soothingly. “Hard to believe, after your mistakes, your Starfleet put _you_ in command of the miracle ship that saved the Corvan mines.”

“Hard to believe that Lord T’Kuvma’s honored second would drop so low as to seek pleasure in the arms of a Human male,” Georgiou counters in a light tone. She feigns confusion, raising one eyebrow and tilting her head as much as her restraints will allow. “Isn’t _Klingon Purity_ your rallying cry? Seems a bit humiliating--”

L’Rell snarls and backhands Georgiou hard across the face, slicing her lip open easily. She whirls to the table covered in grotesque tools and instruments, picking one up and striding back to her.

“And what of your _honored second_ , Captain?” L’Rell hisses the word. “Oh, our warriors had their _pleasure_ in her body...”

This is a lie, Georgiou knows it, she _knows_ that Michael lives, and L’Rell knows that Michael lives, but the way the Klingon interrogator wraps her lips around the word “pleasure” sends a knot of cold fear into her stomach.

L’Rell spots her nearly imperceptible flinch, and grins at it. She holds up her chosen instrument, an oddly shaped blade wrapped in thin silver wires, attached to a hilt that obviously serves as an energy-containment unit.

“And _you_ …you took a hit that day, did you not?”

L’Rell walks behind Georgiou now, and the captain feels the point of the blade sliding the back of her uniform jacket up ever so slowly. She flinches at the contact of the metal tip on her poorly healed phaser burn.

“Yes…” L’Rell whispers. “Seems you did not seek treatment for it in a timely manner. You will regret that, of course.”

Georgiou hears the low hum of a phaser-class energy unit charging to power—

\--and her back erupts in burning, _howling_ agony.

She does not even try to contain her screams.

 

 

 

Georgiou staggers back into the cell, the phaser wound on her lower back screaming as loudly as it had the day she received it. Even the slightest hint of contact to the wound sends needles of agony up Georgiou’s spine and down her legs; thus her uniform jacket is unzipped, the back of her undershirt rolled up to leave the burn uncovered and exposed. She ignores Tyler’s wide-eyed, worried expression and approaches Mudd, her face a twisted blank.

The man’s obvious terror gives her a great deal of pleasure.

“Now now, Captain,” Mudd scrambles to his feet. “Let’s not be hasty in our actions---“ Georgiou grabs the large beetle off of Mudd’s shoulder and tears the tiny metal device off of its abdomen.

“Stealing food was just a diversion,” she throws over her shoulder to an astonished Ash Tyler. “He has been transmitting everything we say to the enemy.”

The listening device crunches under her boot, and the captain is half-tempted to spit on it.

“I dropped some information to both of you, to see if you could be trusted.” Georgiou glares at Mudd, holding the beetle high in her fist. “Imagine my surprise when L’Rell parroted my words back at me.”

_You should have fired first…_

With a snarl, she tears the beetle in half, its guts splattering over her fingers and onto the floor.

“ _STUART!_ ”

Mudd howls in rage at the violent death of his pet. His bearded face contorts into something truly terrifying, and he flies towards Georgiou, hands outstretched.

Despite her longtime occupation of the captain’s chair, Philippa Georgiou remains one of the best hand-to-hand fighters in Starfleet. Were she not fresh out of a torture session that put her previous experience in enemy custody to shame, she could have taken Harry Mudd apart with a smile and laugh.

That is not the case presently.

Mudd’s tackle takes them both to the floor, and Georgiou screams when her wound makes contact with the deck of the cell.

“No!” Tyler shouts, and rushes forward to grab Mudd by the back of the jacket, attempting to pry him off. Mudd shrieks as Georgiou frees an arm to jam her thumb into his eye socket. He grabs her hand quicker than she’d ever expect him capable of, and bites down hard into the rind between her thumb and forefinger. Her howl of pain echoes in the chamber, and Tyler finally succeeds in pulling Mudd away, one arm wrapping around his neck.

“You’re finished, Mudd.” He hisses into the man’s ear. “Next time we choose our pain, we’re choosing you.”

The noise from the scuffle must have alerted the guards, for in the next moment, the cell door hisses open. Tyler instantly releases Mudd, sidestepping quickly away from the man and raising his arms away from his body in a show of surrender. Georgiou claws her way off of the floor, pain in her hand and her back forgotten momentarily. Her eyes dart over the three Klingon guards, studying intently.

The guards appear to be in good health, and have likely not experienced any type of torture in the recent past. Each one of them is armed and Klingon, slanting the odds almost ridiculously in their favor. Nevertheless, Philippa Georgiou steals a knowing glance at Ash Tyler, who gives her subtle nod in response.

 

 

 

Their escape is not easy, but it is satisfying in the extreme.

Leaving Mudd behind, even more so.

Georgiou is intensely grateful to her past self for all of those hours spent on the holodeck fighting Klingon warriors. Broken knuckles aside, the hours of combat experience will likely be crucial to their escape today. She snarls like a wildcat as she kicks and whirls, using one of the guard’s phaser rifles for extra torque to snap his neck. She can’t save Michael, not now, but she _can_ save Lieutenant Ash Tyler, whose strength in surviving captivity gives her hope for her former commander, one of the strongest people she has ever known.

Georgiou and Tyler steal through the corridors, shaking and slow from their recent experiences at the fists of their brutal captors. The captain holds Michael’s information on Klingon starship architecture in her mind like a schematic, and she navigates them through L’Rell’s ship with a capable hand. Each Klingon guard that she shoots is Lord T’Kuvma, teeth bared in a mocking grin as he holds Michael Burnham’s body on the blade of his weapon, and the sound of their bodies vaporizing into nonexistence gives her a twisted pleasure she has not felt in many years.

Their escape is nearly cut off by Ash Tyler’s weakened body. The man is a foot taller than she is; nevertheless the captain slings his arm across her slim shoulders, wraps her own arm around his waist, and pulls him along with her. Philippa Georgiou is stronger than her slender Asian frame would suggest, and this is certainly not the first time she has dragged injured comrades far bigger than she is.

“I’m slowing you down, Captain,” Tyler finally gasps, sliding off her shoulders to drop to his knees in the corridor. He shudders as he loses the ability to remain upright, and his right side impacts the deck with a muffled thump.

Georgiou throws down her phaser in front of him and grabs his arm, pulling with all of her might. “Tyler, get up, _get up,_ ” she hisses urgently.

“Just go on without me—“

“Like hell I will!” Georgiou snarls, gripping the neck of his uniform jacket. “I don’t leave my people behind, Tyler.”

 _Not again, not again, not_ ever _again._

Michael’s information on Klingon starship layout is at the forefront of her mind. It got them this far in their escape, and it will get them out. “The hangar bay is just around this corner, another thirty meters! We are so close, Tyler, you need to move!”

Tyler stares at her, curiosity overcoming exhaustion for a brief moment.

“ _Did you really think you could leave me?_ ” The voice carries down the corridor, regal, melodious, and intensely threatening. “ _After all we’ve been through?_ ”

Both Tyler and Georgiou whirl to see L’Rell at the bulkhead door behind them, her pure white raiment standing in stark contrast to the dim gray of the Klingon corridor. She holds herself tall, mocking rage all but written in her stance.

She’s unarmed.

 

_T’Kuvma’s Number One._

Poetic justice is so rare in this day and age; thus when it does happen, Georgiou tends to make note of it.

In a flash, she bends to grab the phaser rifle from where it lays obscured by Tyler’s lanky body, and this time, she does not hesitate. Her aim is intentional, a glancing shot at the Klingon interrogator’s domed head. In this way, instead of instant, painless vaporization, the energy bolt melts L’Rell’s face off.

Her skull disintegrates where she lies on the floor, and she dies screaming.

Tyler’s eyes are wide, his gaunt face stricken with shock as he watches the violent death of the woman who brutalized him for seven months.

Georgiou’s own face is still as a stone. She slowly lowers her phaser arm back to her side.

“Take that, Lord T’Kuvma.” The captain whispers as she watches L’Rell’s body finally go still.

_That was for my Number One._

 

 

“You want guns or helm?” Tyler asks her as they force open the cockpit of the Klingon fighter.

“Helm,” Georgiou bites out. Her phaser burn screams as she twists herself into the front seat. The restraints are far too large for her wiry Human form, but she pulls them across her chest anyway.

“Figures,” Tyler replies, as he straps himself in behind her.

Georgiou’s fingers fly across the control panel, starting up the launch sequences with practiced ease. The cockpit seals and pressurizes, and Georgiou breathes a sigh of relief that these particular fighters are equipped with internal gravity emitters. God knows she has never had a strong stomach for completely zero-G conditions.

“What do you mean, Tyler?”

“Well, you _did_ pilot a shuttlecraft through the Insari Asteroid Belt, right?” Tyler shouts above the whir of the fuel cells.

“Gods, does _everyone_ know about that?” Georgiou demands wryly, feeling a spike of humor for the first time on this awful day. The fighter rises from the deck, dorsal and ventral control fins sliding into position. All of the lights on the control display shine orange, which, to the Klingon brain, is the equivalent of green.

She can feel Tyler’s grin from where he sits perched behind her in the gunner chair. “It’s an entire unit at the Academy!”

Georgiou rolls her eyes, smiling in spite of herself. The joystick of the Klingon fighter whirs between her thighs, and in spite of her lingering pain, she feels a jolt of exhilaration, because she hasn’t done this in _years._

“Hold on tight!” And with a grin that is just a hair shy of _manic,_ she forces the controls to their maximum.

The fighter screams out of the hangar bay, pinning both of them to the backs of their seats.

 

Within the vacuum of space, Tyler speaks up again, this time in a voice far more hesitant.

“Captain, that phaser burn on your back…”

Georgiou tucks the fighter into a roll, averting her eyes from the spinning view outside the windows to keep her equilibrium intact.

“…Yes?” She prompts Tyler.

The sound of phaser fire rings out from their ship, and a pursuing Klingon fighter seventy-five degrees starboard erupts into a burst of flames.

“You got that at the binary stars, didn’t you?”

The datascreen lights up blue, indicating incoming bogeys on attack vector; Georgiou wants to tell Tyler to focus on the task at hand, but considering the miniscule odds of their escape from this chase, she figures she may as well tell him.

“We choose our pain, Tyler…”

She grits her teeth as she cuts power to the aft thrusters and slams front thrusters to full, bringing their fighter to a screeching halt in space. The four fighters in pursuit scream past them, and before Georgiou can open her mouth to give the order, Tyler lights them up with phase cannons, destroying two of them in less than three seconds.

Georgiou quickly reverses thrusters, and their ship careens through the fiery wreckage. The view outside of the cockpit is nothing but flames for a brief moment before they clear it.

Once in unobstructed space, the captain relaxes slightly at the helm. She looks over her shoulder at Ash Tyler, her expression just a little bit haunted.

“Mine helps me to remember.”

 

 

 

Philippa is desperately proud of Commander Saru for his actions in rescuing her and Tyler from the Klingons. The Kelpien man has grown immensely from the nervous science ensign who first started out on the _Shenzhou,_ and she and Tyler both live because of him. She commends her first officer accordingly, and Saru looks pleased beyond belief at her praise.

She worries about Lieutenant Stamets’ psychological health after learning that he injected himself with the tardigrade DNA and took its place as the drive navigator, but she also knows that her worry will not stop her from doing what she must. In her mind, she can already see how she will use Stamets as a weapon, his creation as a scalpel to cut bleeding swathes through the Klingon enemy.

It is against Starfleet protocol, all of it, Philippa knows this and feels ashamed.

But her commitment to protocol had a massive hand in starting this war, and she will be damned if she allows her own moral superiority to continue it.

_You should have listened to your commander…you should have fired first..._

It may have been a ruse, another way for L’Rell to make her suffer before the physical torture even began.

 _And,_ Philippa reflects, _a way to prolong my suffering long after the physical wounds heal._

There is no way to know for sure, no way for Philippa to verify the words that L’Rell had whispered in her ear as she lay chained to the stockade, and she knows that this will only make them more painful, more haunting for all of their maddening uncertainty.

For better or worse, the feared Klingon interrogator had been good at her job.

 

The torture session with L’Rell has left the captain weak and aching, hot flashes of agony traveling up and down her spine; thus, she and Ash Tyler spend an hour lying on adjacent bio-beds while Doctor Culber frets over them.

The good doctor has instructed her to lie out on her stomach, and the back of her shirt is rolled midway up her spine. Her phaser wound is soaked in a cold healing gel and a biomedical device hovers only inches above it, delivering some type of glowing electrolysis treatment to neutralize the excited phaser particulates.

Culber had looked the most furious that the captain had ever seen him in their seven months together, after he learned that she had never sought focused treatment for the wound. She suspects that only Ash Tyler’s far more heavily injured presence in the room had convinced him to stand down.

She makes a mental note to avoid being alone with Culber for the next week or so, or at least until the _Discovery’_ s next crisis wipes her poor judgment from his memory.

Philippa turns her head to look at Ash Tyler, his painfully thin form, sunken cheeks and haunted eyes, and considers what she should say to him.

It is not her business, _it’s not,_ but the quaking fear in his eyes when L’Rell had showed herself, the way his mouth formed the words as he explained his seven months of survival…

_No one survives Klingon custody for that long…unless they have something to offer._

And there was only one thing that Lieutenant Ash Tyler could have possibly had to offer his interrogator.

Philippa knows the signs, she has seen them in countless others in her thirty years of service. The possibility terrifies her, makes her heart grow cold in her chest, not merely because of Tyler, but because of _Michael_ …

_Have her captors taken a liking to her as well?_

Her gasp must have been audible, because Tyler turns his head to look at her. “You alright, Captain?”

Philippa blinks, and casts a significant glance at the bio-bed she currently occupies.

“Obviously not, Lieutenant.”

Tyler grins. “You’re right, dumb question.” Philippa can’t help but admire the man’s ability to smile after what he has been through.

Culber is gone for the moment, this may be as good a time as any to ask.

“Tyler…” Philippa begins, her voice gentle as if talking to a frightened animal in need of care. “…you mentioned on the Klingon ship…L’Rell had taken a liking to you…”

Tyler’s grin immediately slides from his face, his amusement replaced by fear and shame. Philippa can feel the atmosphere of the room darken, and she regrets her words immediately.

_But I have to know._

“You are strong beyond belief, I hope you know that.” Philippa states clearly, trying to placate the man, who looks like he wants to turn tail and run. “I say this not to accuse you, but because I must know…”

She pauses as she considers her next statement, and icy fear gathers in her chest as she contemplates what Tyler’s response might be. “Was your treatment…common? Do the Klingons treat many of their prisoners in that way-“

“No.”

Tyler’s denial is immediate as he chokes out the word. Philippa raises an eyebrow for him to continue, her hands clenching at the edge of the bio bed despite her best efforts.

“She…” Tyler mutters, swallowing once as if to steady himself… “…she was sick, she was wrong, the other Klingons whispered behind her back. I don’t speak the language well but I picked up on enough.”

He opens and closes his mouth, and his hands twitch where they lay in his lap.

“The others were… _disgusted_ , openly. Said--- said it wasn’t their way…” Tyler starts to tremble, and his hands rise up to cover his sweating face. “I--…I was the only one… I—I…don’t---know…- _why she chose me_ -“

Philippa is out of her bed and next to him in an instant, knocking aside the hoverdrone in the movement. She perches on the edge of Tyler’s biobed and grips his large hands in her own.

“It was not your fault, Ash,” she whispers fiercely. “None of it was your fault, you are not weak, what she did to you was _sick…_ it was not your fault. _”_

 _Not your fault…_ Philippa remembers telling this to Michael after a group of Earth soldiers had gotten overly hands-y with her, and she’d been visibly distraught after sending them all to intensive care.

 _Not your fault..._ Michael had said this to her during a particularly wild shore leave, when after five bourbons Philippa admitted the real reason why she had divorced her ex-husband.

“Not your fault, Ash…”

Tyler gasps where he lies, dark eyes wild with fear, and Philippa holds eye contact with him, trying to bring him back from whatever state she had unwittingly induced. After seven months in the hands of Klingons, post-traumatic stress disorder is practically a given. Philippa feels no hint of surprise at this turn of events.

“You are so very strong, Ash…” Even as she says the words to Ash Tyler, the captain thinks of her former Number One…her _Michael,_ who is experiencing the hell of Klingon captivity somewhere across the galaxy, where Philippa cannot help her. A pang of sadness strikes Philippa in the chest, grief and pain color her words, because right now, at this moment?

It isn’t just Ash Tyler she’s talking to.

“…so _strong_ for surviving where most others would have given in…” she continues, her voice a gentle murmur laced with fierce pride. “I am happy you kept fighting, I’m happy you are _still here_ …” Tyler shudders on the bio bed, his long lanky frame trembling. His face crumples like paper at her words, no doubt the only scrap of kindness he has heard in seven months.

“Your strength is inspiring beyond belief...” Philippa whispers, anointing each word with honesty, with care and with comfort.

Moments pass, and Tyler’s breathing quiets. Slowly, slowly, he seems to return from the panicked state he had previously been immersed in, and Philippa gives silent thanks to the universe. She feels a twinge of guilt, because even as she comforts Tyler, she cannot help her intense internal relief that Michael has most likely not experienced the type of degrading assault that he has.

“Thank you, Captain Georgiou….” Tyler scrubs his face harshly with his hands, and when he finally pulls them away, his dark eyes are swimming with gratitude. “For…for _everything_ , for rescuing me from that…that _hell_ …for what you did to--, to my captor…”

The memory of the Klingon interrogator’s agonizing death takes them both at that moment, and Philippa wonders at how dark her heart has become, how thoroughly this war has changed her that she can feel _proud_ of her actions in the brutal killing of another being.

One look at Tyler’s sunken, traumatized features, and she solves that particular mystery quickly.

“If I could melt L’Rell’s face off again, I would.”

The man manages a weak smile at her words, and the captain knows he will be okay.

 

 

It is not until she is striding out of sickbay that Tyler speaks up again.

“I’ve read your file, Captain…”

Philippa stops, and slowly turns back towards him. A hint of a smile plays at the corners of her lips, even as she wonders about the odd segue. “Most have.”

“No, I mean…” Tyler’s voice staggers as he attempts to compose his thoughts. “The things you’ve been through…” His astonishment is plain in the tone. “…the wars, all of that _death_ , and still you…”

He swallows, looking at the floor then back up at her.

“How did you get through it, Captain?” The man looks completely bewildered, staring at Philippa like she’s an inconceivable mystery. “How did you…make it to the other side and not… _not--_ …”

The word catches in his throat, and for a moment Tyler looks like he might fall apart again. He stares at point off in the distance, and the captain has the distinct feeling that he is no longer there.

“ _How did you choose hope?_ ”

Ash Tyler finally whispers the question, his dark eyes wide and trembling, and Philippa sways on the spot. Though her feet haven’t moved from the deck, suddenly she is standing in her ready-room on the _Shenzhou_ seven months ago, trying valiantly to not throttle her commander for trying to take over her ship.

_“I was a human who had known a life of loss, but still chose hope…”_

The words sound ridiculous now, because her past self had had _no_ idea what loss really was. Philippa swallows, lowering her gaze to the deck as she ponders the question.

“If you had asked me that seven months ago, I would have had a vastly different answer.”

Back on the _U.S.S._ _Shenzhou,_ back in another life, when she had been an explorer, proud and just and noble, the galaxy shining bright with possibility, when her heart had been filled to the brim with a warm, wonderful love that she had _squandered…_

Tyler nods at her in understanding. “A different answer, for different times,” he rasps, his mouth forming a weak smile. “I bet it would’ve been an inspiring answer…captains tend to be like that-”

-Philippa snorts at the statement-

“but--…I think…” Tyler’s eyes tremble, and he staggers in his words, “…maybe I’d rather have the useful answer right now.”

Philippa considers Lieutenant Ash Tyler, a prisoner of war, raped and tortured and brutalized for seven months.

She considers herself, a captain forced to fight a bloody war that she’d tried so desperately to stop, a _woman,_ forced to watch the woman that she---

…that _she---…_

…forced to watch her _die,_ because she was too _weak_ to save her, and now lives every day with the knowledge that Michael Burnham suffers in the hands of the enemy because of it.

_How do I choose hope now, in these dark times?_

Philippa’s answer is far less eloquent than her typical syntax, but no less profound.

“I remember better days, when the universe was bright and good…” Philippa cocks her head and she gazes into empty space, at point somewhere far beyond either of their comprehension. “And I remember the people who made those days what they were.”

Tyler’s dark eyes shimmer at her, looking so very similar to another pair of dark eyes that had once filled her with the very hope she now speaks of.

“I think of the ones who inspire me, Ash…I think of the people I love, and I know that I must continue, if not for me, then for them.”

That night, she dreams of Michael.

 

_*_

 

_Eleven months, four days before the Battle at the Binary Stars_

 

Commander Michael Burnham is good at many things. She is an accomplished quantum physicist and xenoanthropologist, her martial arts skills are feared by the entirety of the security force, her abilities as a tactician are beginning to rival the captain’s, and (bizarrely) she is a gifted field cook as well.

What Michael Burnham cannot do, however, is act.

“Michael,” Philippa hisses. “If we are to be successful at this, you must at least _try_ to look like you want to be here.”

The woman in question doesn’t move.

The plan for infiltrating the interstellar smuggling ring was a sound one, but somehow during the planning, no one had realized that half of the away-team consisted of a Vulcan-raised human whose upbringing did not include the concept of make-believe as understood by most other humanoid species.

Philippa Georgiou will be having words with Tactical once they get back to the _Shenzhou._

Right now, she has to make sure this away mission doesn’t go sideways.

The captain and her first officer stand in a cavernous ballroom filled with humanoids dressed to the nines, and Philippa and Michael are no different. Were the circumstances a little less dire, Philippa might allow herself to enjoy the sight of Michael Burnham in a deep red cocktail dress; however, they are attempting to track down a smuggler who plans to kill a rival smuggler tonight, at this event. And they have no clue as to the identities of either one.

She has to stay focused.

The whole thing feels rather like a holodeck episode, which makes staying focused even more difficult. At least half of the people present tonight are tied to the smuggling ring in some way; the two targets of this mission are key players in an illegal trade that is all but strangling the economies of the four planets in this system. The plan had been to ingratiate themselves among the attendees, build a framework of information concerning the smuggling ring, and use it to identify the target and instigator of tonight’s assassination.

Thanks to Michael’s obvious discomfort, the plan is not going well.

“I may not have been a good choice for this away-mission,” Michael states as yet another well-dressed being walks away from the duo with a distainful side-eye.

Philippa rolls her eyes. “You think?”

Michael looks at her, then at the ground. Philippa feels a spike of regret; it really isn’t Michael’s fault, but for God’s sake, being here _alone_ would probably be more conducive to success.

“Let’s think about this tactically.” Philippa murmurs, eyes roving across the massive room filled with people, from the central dance floor to the bar and tables flanking the walls. The suggestion is not merely for Michael’s sake, talking to people has been getting them nowhere and the captain figures it is time to move on.

Nodding briskly now, Michael’s dark eyes widen as she takes in the humanoids in the room. “Kolvari smugglers are known for carrying enhanced weaponry, miniaturized and reworked into jewelry.”

Philippa nods as her gaze roams across the upper level of the room. “Bracelets and cuffs in particular, necklaces as well.”

Tucked away into this corner, they are not in a good position to scan the full room, which is two levels high and the size of half an old-Earth city block. The captain looks around for better vantage point, and sees one immediately. She looks at Michael, who looks back at her with a raised eyebrow.

Apparently they both have the same idea.

Philippa sighs and offers Michael her hand, palm up. This will probably not go well, but it cannot possibly go worse than it had been before.

To her immense surprise, Michael takes her hand and gently flips it, moving her palm to face the floor. She grasps Philippa’s hand in her own, thumb brushing over her knuckles.

“I have a slight height advantage, it will be more accurate if I lead considering this particular style of dance.”

The captain’s train of thought grinds to a screeching, stuttering halt, before careening off the tracks altogether. She turns her head slowly to stare at the woman beside her. From Michael’s placid, unbothered expression, she may have just made a comment about the weather.

Philippa is so utterly thrown that Michael manages to guide her to the edge of the dance floor before she can form a response.

“How in the _hell_ do you know about Kolvari dance practices?”

Michael shrugs nonchalantly, which is a dead giveaway that she is absolutely loving this. “I have a broad range of interests.”

She guides Philippa’s opposite hand to her shoulder, and places her own hand on Philippa’s waist. The captain blinks at the contact, not quite intimate but certainly far more than she is used to receiving from her Vulcan-fostered protégé.

Well…from any of her crew, if she is entirely honest.

Michael begins to lead them in an odd five-by-five step pattern. It matches the other participants on the dance floor, but is so completely foreign to Philippa that she nearly trips over Michael’s feet.

 _Sometimes being a trained classical dancer has its downsides._ This is the truth; certain movements and patterns are so ingrained in Philippa Georgiou’s muscle memory that branching out like this feels like unlearning how to walk.

Michael picks up on her small gasp, and pulls her in closer.

Physical closeness to a leader helps the follower to mirror the steps and movement, Philippa knows this, _she_ _knows this,_ but the move still makes her heart skip a beat.

Michael’s voice is very close to her ear now, and Philippa nearly shivers at it.

“A five-step sequence makes little sense to our human brains which strive for even numbers, but it will not get harder than this.”

“Dare I ask why you know this?” Philippa manages, even while focusing nearly exclusively on not tripping over Michael’s feet.

“I once attempted to learn an eleven-step Tellurian dance sequence. Navigating the Maw was easier.”

It is not an answer to the question that Philippa was asking; in fact, it only raises more questions. She suspects that this is intentional on Michael’s part, and suspects even further that the younger woman has been waiting quite a long time for this particular reveal. Her dark eyes dance with merriment, even while her face betrays nothing.

Philippa shakes her head. Michael Burnham is the product of two distinctly opposing cultures, and as a result, she is _devastatingly_ unpredictable. Philippa is starting to believe that the woman uses this dual nature to her advantage in their personal interactions, in order to keep her perpetually off-guard and guessing.

She _would_ ask, but feels that to do so would be to admit some kind of defeat.

Michael’s lead hand presses backwards and Philippa tucks into a graceful spin, whirling back into Michael’s arms and continuing the steps. “I have… _so_ many questions for you, Number One, but for now let’s focus on the mission.”

“Right.” Michael nods, her brown eyes instantly hardening into focus. “We are looking for humanoids of any gender, not that that narrows it down…”

“…wearing a bracelet or a necklace,” Philippa continues from her place in Michael’s arms. Over her commander’s shoulder, she scans the room in its entirety.

“Any jewelry would likely emit a faint radiation signature…” Michael states softly.

“Not exactly helpful to us right now-“

“But they would need to take precautions against it, the Kolvari are sensitive to radiation in frequencies higher than ultraviolet.” Michael speaks quickly into Philippa’s ear before spinning her again to match the other dancers.

“Some type of lead-based protection?” Philippa suggests breathlessly; the spin was fairly sudden.

“Likely a great deal of it,” Michael replies while back stepping, “a lead lined shirt including lined sleeves, bare arms would result in radiation burns.”

Philippa nods curtly, eliminating a good number of potential targets in the room based on that information alone.

“The smugglers are well-off enough to gain entrance to this event…” The captain executes a brief, flashy amagues with her left foot.

Michael’s eyebrows lift in appreciation. “True, but they would likely want to remain inconspicuous.”

“What I mean is that they will be in peak physical condition; no blemishes, no ocular defects, no dental imperfections…” Philippa’s eyes flicker as she speculates. “Only the best that money can buy, the Kolvari are notoriously vain.”

Michael nods quickly, turning them in a tight circle to skirt another couple. Philippa allows her body to move in time with Michael’s, rather enjoying the feeling of not being in control for once.

“Two feet left of the bar, maroon tuxedo jacket, pale skin, blond hair, one-point eight meters tall,” Michael mutters in her ear, executing a quick, showy crossover to switch positions with Philippa.

The captain takes in the man Michael had spotted. The description is accurate, and he wears a barely-concealed leather cuff on his left arm, which Philippa manages to take in when he lifts his arm to drink the amber liquid in his glass.

“He demonstrates no reaction to the liquid in the glass,” Philippa observes. “I would wager it is non-alcoholic.” This is more unusual than it sounds; this particular culture places great emphasis on spirits, alcohol being more ubiquitous than water.

Her commander nods her understanding. “If you watch him, I will search for the other smuggler.”

The music ends, and Michael dips the captain low across one knee, one hand securing her upper back and neck, the other clasping her following hand in a vice. It has been a long time since Philippa Georgiou allowed herself to be dipped by someone who is not part of a holodeck program.

She finds the sensation immensely enjoyable.

Her heart beats just a little faster at the sight of Michael’s face so close above hers. The other woman is surprisingly relaxed considering she is holding up the majority of Philippa’s body weight. There’s a small, joyful smile across her lips, which Philippa cannot help but return from her practically horizontal position.

A new song begins now, a faster-paced one.

“This song has a traditional four-four pattern,” Michael states as she pulls Philippa back up. “Would you like to lead, Captain?”

Philippa considers politely refusing. Being the follower to Michael’s surprisingly confident lead had been relaxing to the point of _fun_ , but she supposes that fair is only fair. She takes Michael’s right hand in her left and places a hand on her waist. Michael’s hand comes up to her shoulder in a loose, yet confident grip, and they begin an easy step pattern.

Philippa keeps a close eye on the man at the bar. He is inconspicuous enough, save for the cold flintiness in his grey eyes. This look alone is enough to give Philippa pause.

She has seen enough killers in her life to know that this man is one of them.

“I can’t find anyone who might be the other smuggler, Captain.” Michael breathes just below her ear. “No one else fits the parameters.”

Philippa’s shoulder muscle spasms reflexively at the sensation of Michael’s voice vibrating so close to her ear canal, but she quickly clamps down on the reaction.

“Perhaps we have missed something,” Philippa whispers back, her dark eyes flickering across the room once more. “They might be at the coat-check, the fresher, anywhere else.”

“We have been here long enough, I have seen no fresh faces coming in or out,” Michael denies. “They might be somewhere further than we can easily see.”

A sudden thought strikes the captain.

“Or _closer_ than we can easily see.”

She and her Number One make quick, significant eye contact and Philippa initiates a double-turn, spinning them both outwards so they are back-to-back for a brief moment. It is a tricky maneuver, but the resulting position is perfect to scan the entire dance floor.

Philippa immediately spots a striking dark-skinned woman wearing a black tuxedo jacket and crisp, tailored pants. Her necklace is large, metallic and, to the captain’s trained eye, blatantly technological. She dances with another woman, whose long-sleeved dress goes under the heavy cuffs on her wrist, rather than over them.

She quickly brings Michael out of the turn and back into her chest.

“Michael,” she hisses, “two-o’clock, dark-skinned female, black tuxedo, heavy necklace. Partner is female, cuffs, purple dress.”

“I see them,” the other woman states quickly. “Maroon tux is moving.”

Philippa twists her head to look and nearly misses the next move of the dance. Michael covers admirably and tucks into an unprompted spin, returning to Philippa’s arms with wide eyes.

“Purple-dress is tensing-”

“As is black-tuxedo,” the captain completes quickly. “My micro is between my shoulder blades-“

“Mine is at the small of my back,” Michael rushes through the statement, the blond man is walking faster now, a hand at his cuff. Philippa manages one more turn to look at the female couple, both of whom are fingering at the dark-skinned woman’s necklace-

She hears the low, nearly imperceptible crackle of energy weapons-

The captain plunges her hand through the almost-invisible slit in the back of Michael’s dress, Michael’s hand slides between her shoulder blades-

They spin at the same time. Chest-to-chest, Philippa squeezes off one shot around Michael’s right hip, Michael’s shot rings inches from the captain’s left ear, arm steadied by Philippa’s shoulder.

Both shots land true.

The dark-skinned woman screams as Michael’s phaser bolt violently interferes with her energy-necklace, and she and her partner crumple to the ground, unconscious.

The man in the maroon tuxedo does not scream, but his face contorts in agony and a metallic blue glow effuses his wrist, right over the leather cuff. His body twitches once, twice, and then he too is on the floor, still as a corpse.

Philippa releases the breath she had been holding, and feels Michael’s body relax against hers.

They did it.

The room is silent for a brief moment, before the yelling begins.

 _And on to the next problem,_ the captain considers wearily.

 

After performing the necessary crowd control and securing the unconscious smugglers, Philippa allows herself to relax slightly. At her side, Michael mirrors her relaxation.

The brief burst of violence has been forgotten for the moment, and the night goes on. The captain had wondered briefly at the attendees’ willingness to accept their presence here, but Michael’s quiet explanation of Kolvari desensitivity regarding violence seemed logical, and no one here tonight knows that she and Michael are a part of Starfleet. That _,_ at least, Michael had managed to not give away.

Philippa watches the dancers, feeling the solid presence of her commander only a few feet away.

Finally, she can take it no longer.

“Explain to me, please, how you are so well-versed in the dance practices of alien cultures?”

She senses Michael’s amusement, and manages to not roll her eyes in annoyance.

“Would you believe me if I told you it was part of the curriculum of my xenoanthropology program?”

“Not even for a moment,” Philippa deadpans. “You forget I reviewed that curriculum myself, Number One.”

“Your use of the term “forget” implies that I knew of that fact in the first place.”

Philippa manages not to flush at her slip, but it’s a near thing. “Enough deflecting, Michael” she finally manages. “How is it that a Vulcan-raised woman is such a skilled dancer? I know you did not grow up with it as I did.”

Michael nods in agreement of this fact.

“I did not; however, I _am_ fairly kinesthetically gifted. Picking up the skill was not particularly difficult; it was rather like…learning a new style of martial arts.”

“I see…” Philippa looks at Michael now, appraising her unapologetically. “…and what, exactly, made you decide to do this?”

Michael looks at her quickly, before looking away. It’s a rather quick mood-change from confident to nervous, and Philippa wonders where exactly it came from.

“Dance with me?” Michael finally asks.

Philippa raises her eyebrows at the question, not even in the vicinity of being a subtle redirect. Nevertheless, the want is clear in Michael’s expression, and the diplomat side of Philippa’s brain is quick to spot the opportunity.

“Tell me what made you want to learn how to dance,” the captain counters, cocking her head shrewdly as if sitting at a negotiating table.

“Deal.”

Michael nods once, and Philippa realizes too late that she may have played right into the woman’s hands.

She shakes her head ruefully, smiling in spite of herself. “I have taught you too well, my friend.”

“Is that not the goal of teachers, for their students to surpass them?” Michael smiles back at her.

Philippa can’t help it; she reaches out to squeeze Michael’s arm in playful manner. “Do not get too cocky, Number One. There are things I have yet to share with you.”

“Holding out on me, Captain?” Michael teases, dark eyes dancing at the wordplay. “Seems a little… _unscrupulous_.”

Michael pronounces the word like she’s savoring it. Her lips pop ever so slightly at the “p” sound, and Philippa’s eyes drop helplessly towards them.

She should put a stop to this.

She _should_ put a stop to this.

“One does not get to be a decorated Starfleet captain without playing a little dirty.” Philippa finally manages. She immediately kicks herself, because that response is practically the opposite of putting a stop to this.

Michael grins slowly in genuine delight, and Philippa feels a little faint at it.

“Well…the next time I find myself challenged by Starfleet protocol, I will be sure to remember your sage advice.”

Philippa shakes her head while chewing hard on her lower lip. She hopes that it comes off as exasperated annoyance, when in reality she’s only barely keeping herself from grinning back.

Michael is not even close to being fooled, but she looks away politely to give Philippa time to pull herself together.

Affection swells in the captain’s chest for her friend, who despite her Vulcan upbringing (or perhaps because of it) is clever, feisty, and utterly unpredictable. Philippa has always found her fascinating, but right now she is practically _enchanting._

“So about that dance…” Michael finally suggests.

Philippa sighs good-naturedly and offers her hand once more.

“Do not forget our quid-pro-quo,” she murmurs as they proceed to the dance floor.

“I doubt you would ever let me, Captain.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dance scene? A little unrealistic for Star Trek? I thought so too, but then I remembered that in Star Trek Beyond Kirk rides into the final battle on a motorcycle, which is the 23rd century equivalent of a Navy Seal going into a sting operation in a horse-drawn carriage.
> 
> Star Trek is ridiculous and I'm pretty sure I can do whatever I want.


	8. Georgiou Tactics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, the chapter that ended my life. Enjoy...

 

 

_Eleven months, four days before the Battle at the Binary Stars_

 

This is the best night of Michael Burnham’s life.

The statement is not a conjecture, nor is it the gross exaggeration that her Human crewmates so enjoy. Having run through the entirety of her memories in the short amount of time before the captain started questioning her surprising knowledge of dance, Michael knows beyond a doubt that the statement is true.

She had not expected the evening to proceed as it had, after all an away mission is an away mission. Technically, she and the captain have both been on-duty since transporting just outside of the large building that served as the meeting place for these Kolvari smugglers.

Knowing this had not stopped Michael from leaning into the intense joy of holding her captain’s body in her arms, steering her in the odd five-five pattern that had taken Michael so long to learn, dipping her across one knee in the way that she had practiced in the holodeck and during crew parties back before making first officer.

“ _Picking up the skill was not particularly difficult; rather like…learning a style of martial arts._ ”

Not difficult…

Now _that_ had been an exaggeration of biblical proportions.

Michael had grown up on Vulcan, which is not say that there had been _no_ music; however, the music she had listened to for much of her life had not contained structured beats, nor the type of time signatures conducive towards reciprocal body movement.

In layman’s terms, she had had _zero_ rhythm coming into her study of dance.

Shia Ver Lan had teased her about this nearly three years ago, that night on Andawar II, and despite her extensive physical controls, Michael had blushed to her roots. The Andawarian diplomat had noticed this and had murmured a soft apology, accompanied by a gentle kiss to her cheek.

Michael had blushed again, this time for a very different reason.

 

The arrangement that she had entered into with Philippa presses heavily on Michael’s mind as she leads her captain to the dance floor once more.

“ _And what, exactly, made you decide to do this?_ ”

Michael would not have lied to her. Being raised in the perpetually honest Vulcan culture has made her detest lying in all forms.

But the possibility of being truthful to her captain had unnerved her in the extreme.

_It was you, Captain…you inspired me, your beauty made me want to be brave, be uncomfortable, be Human…_

She isn’t quite ready to say such a thing, and she doubts that her captain is ready to hear it.

Thus, Michael’s brain had skimmed through possible courses of action at warp speed, and she came to the decision that if this is the night that she must reveal her feelings to her captain, her mentor, her friend, well…she might as well get one last dance with the woman before everything goes to hell.

The first officer knows that their time is running short; Lieutenant Saru will be summoning them back to the ship at any moment now. Thus, she begins to commit every aspect of this night to her memory.

The way Philippa’s slender frame looks in her dress the color of deep midnight, form fitting and floor-length, slits on both sides up to mid-thigh for freedom of movement. Her inky tresses are more intensely curled than usual, cascading over slim shoulders in a way that makes Michael desperately want to run her fingers through them. The feel of her muscles twitching beneath Michael’s highly tuned fingertips, the way she had shivered when Michael had whispered information into her ear…

Physical reactions do not necessarily indicate emotional undercurrent, Michael understands this.

But she cannot help the reciprocal warmth rushing through her veins in a spike of intense heat.

“So…” Michael finally murmurs as she and Philippa sway together, “…those things you haven’t yet shared with me…care to elaborate?”

“I could ask the same of you,” Philippa counters, a response that Michael had seen coming. “I believe that we even had a _bargain_ concerning that information.”

“True…” Michael smiles at the wordplay. “Have you come to collect?”

“I have always been here to collect, Michael.”

It is Michael’s lead, and she presses the captain into a spin. Naturally, Philippa makes it a showy one, doubling the spin and extending one well-muscled arm in a truly beautiful arching pattern.

Michael’s heart aches at the motion, but in a good way.

Philippa returns to her arms wearing the teasing, impish expression that turns Michael’s insides to mush _every time._ The captain’s beautiful face is close to hers now, no doubt an intentional move on her part.

“Now…” Her eyes dance with mischief, and her lips twitch into a knowing smile.

“ _Pay up._ ”

Michael manages not to trip over her own feet, but it’s a near thing.

“Andawar II…” she manages, and Philippa’s eyes widen, her eyebrows climbing nearly to her hairline. Michael believes she knows why.

The night she had spent with Shia Ver Lan had not seemed such a big deal to her, but in a short amount of time, it seemed that the entire ship knew about their Vulcan-raised crewmate’s conspicuously late arrival back to the _Shenzhou_. Her friends had teased her mercilessly, and she had gotten a great many curious looks even from those who would not have personally noticed her absence. Michael eventually realized that this was because her return to the ship at 0745 hours the next day had shown up in the transporter logs.

The transporter logs that _Shenzhou_ ’s captain personally looks at and files as a matter of bureaucratic procedure.

Michael had found her mentor’s barely concealed, _burning_ curiosity concerning her whereabouts that night to be endlessly amusing.

“…Andawar II?” Philippa repeats back to her, gesturing with her chin for Michael to continue.

“I…hmm.” Michael staggers in the sentence, in what she knows is unusual hesitation for her. Philippa looks even more surprised at that, and Michael’s breath hitches as the captain’s fingers grip her shoulder just a little bit harder. “I saw you dance with the ambassador that night.”

Philippa raises an eyebrow, and Michael leads her in a four-by-four turn that takes them around a pair of other dancers. “It was…a very beautiful thing to watch, Captain.”

 _You were a very beautiful thing to watch_ , Michael wants to say, but the words only echo silently inside of her head.

“And that is what made you desire to learn?” Philippa murmurs the question, her face soft at the implication. “That was over three years ago, Michael…”

Michael’s brow furrows. “What relevance is the temporal distance of that night to now?”

Philippa’s mouth opens and closes, and Michael smiles at her uncharacteristic confusion before leading them into a turnout to give her time to collect herself.

“None, I suppose, but…” Philippa shakes her head. “You’ve kept it secret, all this time?”

“I’ve made no secret of it,” Michael denies. “I participated in various parties and gatherings with the rest of the crew, until my promotion made such a thing unprofessional.”

And the looks on the faces of the _Shenzhou_ ’s non-officer ranks when their Vulcan-raised crewmate demonstrated immense capability as a dancer had equaled Philippa Georgiou’s obvious shock at the same revelation.

The captain still looks confused, but her eyes are widening in the way that they tend to when she is putting pieces of a puzzle together.

“Did no one tell you?” Michael grins at the astonishment on her mentor’s face.

_By the stars, being able to astonish the legendary Captain Georgiou might be the most satisfying thing in the whole wide universe._

“I always thought they were just rumors…the crew trying to play a joke.” Philippa’s voice is still confused, and Michael is uncertain whether to be offended or amused.

She chooses both.

The music starts to end, and Michael dips the captain low again. Her lead hand climbs the vertebrae in Philippa’s neck to tangle in her long hair, a supportive gesture that nevertheless makes Michael’s stomach flip flop with pleasure.

“So you elected to assume that the entire crew has been playing a joke on you for three years, rather than consider the truth of their statements.” Michael scoots her leading foot forward an inch, dipping Philippa even lower, and the captain’s eyes widen at the sudden move. “ _Logically,_ Captain…that makes no sense.”

She feels Philippa’s core muscles engage to keep the dip stable, and sees her neck muscles tremble in a swallow.

“Is it so unbelievable that I might choose to do something for pleasure?” Michael’s voice drops to a murmur.

Philippa stares at her for a long moment.

“It is becoming more believable by the second…” she finally murmurs. Michael smiles at this and slides her foot forward again.

Philippa gasps when her body drops another fraction of an inch. “Okay, now you’re just showing off.”

“Yes,” Michael agrees.

“Is that not a little _unscrupulous_?” Philippa counters, alluding to one of Michael’s previous statements.

Michael smiles wider, leaning in closer.

“ _Playing dirty._ ” She replies, and watches a slight flush rise in Philippa’s high cheekbones.

She jumps at the sharp prod to her side, and Philippa smiles wickedly at it.

“I could drop you, Captain,” Michael points out breathlessly.

“Drop me, then.”

Philippa’s face is serene despite the senselessness of her response, and Michael feels a stab of confusion at it.

After a moment, she disengages the dip and pulls the captain gently to her feet. The dip was longer than any that Michael had previously held, but she feels no twinges of soreness or pain at it. Indeed, with the intense, vibrating energy burning through her body, Michael thinks that she could run twenty kilometers, lift an entire starship, plot a course through the Maw again but _faster._

“Lesson one of the things I have yet to share with you…” Philippa murmurs, and Michael sees the sparkle in her eye.

The one that means that the tables are about to be turned.

Philippa’s hand slides to Michael’s waist, pulling her close, and her left hand quickly works its way under Michael’s right hand, indicating her intent to lead.

“Do not merely call your opponents’ bluff, Michael.” Philippa begins to step at the start of the music, the hand at Michael’s waist directing her movements in a way that is both gentle and powerful. “Bluff harder. Make their threat your own.”

_Drop me, then…_

“You know I would never drop you, Captain…” Michael murmurs, and Philippa smiles.

“Of course I know, Number One. I trust you implicitly.”

Michael’s heart swells at the statement, one that she knows she will treasure from this day forward. For all of Philippa Georgiou’s well-known warmth, she is remarkably slow to trust, her guard held high and strong, damn near impenetrable. Michael knows this after many years of observing the woman’s behavioral patterns. For Philippa to say _this_ to her _…_

It means more than Michael could ever say.

“Make my threat yours…” Michael mulls this over in her mind. She returns to Philippa’s arms, and is momentarily distracted from the thought by her captain’s face so close to her own.

 _No wonder dancing exists…_ she considers weakly. After all, when else would she be given an opportunity to be so utterly close to Philippa Georgiou’s stunning features?

Aside from sparring, which has become equally hellish in its own way.

Michael knows already that she is going to have quite a bit of energy to burn through when she returns to her quarters tonight.

_I wonder what the captain will do after she returns to her quarters tonight._

The thought is enough to make Michael’s eyes widen, her heart tremble, her cheeks flush. Naturally, Philippa notices this. “All right, Number One?”

“Yes…” Michael breathes, before straightening her spine and getting ahold of herself once more.

Control is becoming more and more of a difficult undertaking, she finds, at least where Philippa is concerned. This would make the first officer nervous in the extreme, if not for the fact that it was the loss of her Vulcan controls so many years ago on Andawar II that had led to their present situation.

Not to mention…

It was her knowledge of Philippa Georgiou’s eyes at her back that had enabled her brilliant success during the battle simulation three days prior. The thought of what her captain might think of her two weeks and four days prior when she had leapt off of an eight-kilometer high cliff in order to get the detached proton accelerator up to terminal velocity.

Now _that_ had been a fun away mission.

And of course, the time when, surrounded by one dozen alien warriors, Michael had singlehandedly felled eight of them, a personal record that she had never come close to achieving in all of her years of service.

And it had been easy.

_She makes me feel like I can do anything._

Michael’s eyes widen at the realization.

Of course, at this point Philippa’s comm unit crackles, and she and Lieutenant Saru begin negotiating the beam-up process. Michael is too distracted by her thoughts to think much of it, even as the haze of lateral vector transport dematerializes her form.

They garner several raised eyebrows from the ensigns on duty in the transporter room upon rematerialization, and Philippa immediately steps away from Michael, dropping from their intimate embrace as if burned by it.

Michael feels a mix of bewilderment and amusement at this act, as well as a good many before it.

 

 _It makes no utter sense,_ she muses later that night while looking out at the stars from the window of her quarters.

Her observations of the captain’s behavior over the past year have given her a great deal of confusion. The physical reactions are all there, the emotional ones as well, but whenever Michael had begun to think her conclusion was obvious and foregone, Philippa would do something that would throw off the entirety of the readings.

_Tonight, I all but admitted that she inspired me to step out of my comfort zone…to embrace my humanity…_

Michael would consider such a confession to be incontrovertible evidence of her romantic feelings, but Philippa had pretty much ignored it.

_Perhaps this is not a situation that yields to logical analysis…_

This thought makes Michael intensely uncomfortable, because how else is she supposed to understand it?

“Personal log, First Officer Michael Burnham. I have encountered an odd type of quandary, academic in structure but personal in nature. I have delineated my own romantic feelings towards a certain…crewmember…in past entries, as well as my own observations of said person in the interest of determining their feelings towards me.”

“I must note, however, that my analysis of this person’s behavior to determine possible reciprocity has proven to be…” Michael runs a weary hand over her face. “Difficult. The patterns they exhibit seem to follow an understandable path, until the person demonstrates an action that goes against the entirety of those previously demonstrated.”

Michael clenches her jaw, frustration bubbling up from somewhere in her chest.

“It makes no damn _sense._ ” She finally bites out.

The cosmos whirls outside of her window, setting Michael’s dark skin aglow. She studies the millions of stars and planets, all preset on their paths, none of them deviating or showing any type of illogical behavior whatsoever.

Michael envies them.

“Possible rationalizations for this person’s behavior…” Trailing off now, Michael spends several long moments searching her mind, her feelings, for some type of reconciliation.

None are forthcoming.

Feeling somewhat dejected, she pauses the log entry and sighs.

One possibility for Philippa’s erratic behavior enters her mind, but Michael rejects it immediately. Her captain has far too much emotional intelligence for such a thing to even be contemplated.

_Perhaps she does not know what is happening._

The conjecture makes no logical sense at this point; the tension is there, the emotions are there, the raw, physical _need_ is most certainly there and has been for a long time now…

Michael scoffs at the very thought.

The crew is starting to notice, that much is certain. The looks they had garnered from the transporter room ensigns had been amused, entertained, but certainly not surprised. Michael herself is willing to bet a week of replicator rations that Tactical had known exactly what they were doing when they had recommended that she accompany the captain on tonight’s away mission, despite her lack of acting ability.

One would have to be willfully blind to not see what is happening.

“Moving on…” Michael restarts her log and shakes her head to jerk herself out of her musings.

“As for my own feelings, I came to a realization earlier this evening. I feel powerful… _unbeatable_ …when they are nearby. Not only physically, but mentally as well.” Michael’s lips twist as she considers her next statement. “In light of this data, I believe that to call this a mere “feeling” would be something of an understatement. It is not that I merely _feel_ stronger when they are near, it is that I _am_ stronger…smarter…better.”

“Logically, this makes no sense, but in reality, there is…” Michael hesitates, “…a great deal of evidence in favor of such a phenomenon. Tangible, physical evidence...”

Shaking her head now, Michael rubs hard at her eyes as she contemplates this quandary.

“This suggests that whatever I am feeling…is somehow _not_ a feeling at all.”

Michael trails off, considering this for several moments.

“ _It makes no sense…_ ”

The murmur is low, hanging in the darkness of her quarters like a spell.

“Scientifically… _logically_ … a mere feeling cannot possibly act on its surroundings in such a way…yet it _does_ …”

Standing up very slowly now, Michael blinks in the relative darkness of her quarters. It is just barely into gamma-shift on the _U.S.S. Shenzhou,_ and her own circadian rhythm is feeling the lateness of the hour.

But the thought of going to sleep before working through this issue seems utter lunacy.

Yet despite this intention, Michael only stands motionless in front of her window, her brain having gone still.

And there she remains until 0545 when her preset alarm goes off.

 

 

 *

 * 

 

 

“My name is Michael Burnham…”

The words come out a low, mellow murmur.

“I am a former Starfleet commander…”

The sound does not echo in her cell, too small and far too solid to form the type of chamber necessary for sound waves to reverberate, but Michael hears it ring inside of her head, over and over and over again.

“I served on the _U.S.S. Shenzhou_ …under Captain Philippa Georgiou…”

Michael savors the sound of her captain’s name in the silence of her tiny room where she sits cross-legged in meditation. The syllables roll across her tongue, her lips folding over the words like the best kind of medicine.

“I am a mutineer…”

This particular truth still strikes like a heavy blow, but it is the kind that fills Michael with a useful, vengeful type of rage.

“ _I am not a traitor._ ”

The final litany completes Michael Burnham’s homespun prayer, the oath she repeats to herself every morning and evening, before and after she limps to the science bay to continue unlocking the universe’s deepest mysteries.

And at this particular task…she has finally, _finally_ succeeded.

 

 

During the first successful test of the wormhole device, the universe had torn apart at the seams.

The shuttlecraft had entered the odd, wobbling hole cut in the fabric of space-time and re-emerged on the other side of the eighty-three kilometer-long asteroid with an elapsed time of point three two seconds.

A miracle. A scientific breakthrough, truly and entirely, that will place Michael Burnham among the ranks of Einstein, Hawking, and Chandrashekhar.

It will win the war for the Klingon Empire.

No one claps.

The entirety of the Klingon workforce only stands mute. Michael likes to imagine that they too, are horrified at what she has done.

The physical sensations that the device had evoked during its initial firing, the coils glowing, the entire science deck vibrating…

The universe had gone still.

Michael had felt her stomach turning inside out. There was the distinct sensation of fingernails dragging down a chalkboard, emanating through her entire body. She was drowning, on fire, and being buried alive at the same time. If she were Kelpien, like Saru, she might describe it as…

…the coming of death.

The old Earth quote had come to her then, the same that Oppenheimer had quoted upon completing the first atomic bomb.

_And now I am become Death, destroyer of worlds._

The wormhole device is fundamentally wrong. It bends and distorts universal laws, warping aspects of creation itself, and this is not a thing to be taken lightly. With each successive firing, the possibility of the entire fabric of reality coming apart increases. Michael knows this, and she suspects that the Klingon scientists do as well.

And yet…this very phenomenon had formed a shield around Michael. Her success in unlocking the fundamental connection between space and time has lended her a type of armor, of invincibility. Strange, considering her deteriorating physical condition, but true nonetheless. Though her body grows ever weaker trapped on the Klingon science vessel, the immense power that her mind has unleashed could potentially bring the universe to its knees.

The Klingons have not laid a hand on her since.

 

Of course, this spotless record had changed immediately with the unexpected arrival of Lord T’Kuvma himself.

 

Michael hears the thudding footsteps proceeding across the science deck, and barely has time to look up from her console before the heavy slap knocks her to the ground. The blow is forceful enough to scatter her thoughts as her brain tumbles inside of her skull. She feels sticky wetness under her face, and realizes that the spikes on T’Kuvma’s Klingon knuckles have ripped her cheek open.

“ _Your captain!_ ” T’Kuvma shouts from somewhere above her. “ _Your captain killed my second!_ ”

From her place crumpled on the floor, the slice in her cheek gushing warm blood, Michael blinks at the statement.

_T’Kuvma’s second… the Butcher, the interrogator, the Snake._

_Philippa killed Lady L’Rell._

And for the first time in many months, Michael _smiles_ , the action hurting her dry, cracked lips.

T’Kuvma sees this immediately, and his hand flashes out to grab Michael by the neck, ripping her from the floor and slamming her up into the data terminal. Though his grip around her neck is fairly light, not even a real chokehold, Michael feels her body grow weak, spots swimming before her eyes.

 _A side effect of the opportunistic lung infection_ , she realizes, even as her vision darkens.

T’Kuvma seems to realize the devastating effect his grip has on her, and opens his fist to drop her. Michael’s feet hit the deck, and her knees and torso quickly follow.

Kneeling next her crumpled body, T’Kuvma growls out, “ _This was her idea._ ”

Michael gasps for air, but she rolls over as she does so to make eye contact with the Klingon leader. This whole encounter feels incredibly reminiscent of their first encounter here, eight months ago, when T’Kuvma had threatened and cajoled and finally enlisted her help in building the wormhole device.

The wormhole device…

“ _The wormhole device…was L’Rell’s idea?_ ” Michael grunts the syllables, the thick fluid in her lungs making it easy to summon a Klingon inflection.

“ _Keeping you_ alive _, was L’Rell’s idea!_ ” T’Kuvma snarls, slamming his fist into the deck mere inches from Michael’s face.

Michael blinks as she processes this.

 _It makes sense_ , she acknowledges. T’Kuvma’s main rallying cry was _Remain Klingon_ after all. The entire purpose behind starting this war was Klingon purity, preservation of the Klingon way of life. It had always seemed unusual to Michael that the Klingon messiah would enlist the help of a Human to build the glorious machine that would ensure the Klingon victory.

But for L’Rell the Underhanded, L’Rell the _Snake_ …

It made perfect sense.

“ _Why should I keep you alive now?_ ” His hand comes back up to grasp her by the throat, pulling her to her knees. He does not squeeze this time, but the implication is there.

Michael nearly panics at the threat, her mind all but screaming her denial, _Not yet, not yet, not when I am so close!,_ but her voice comes out calm and measured, and states, “ _Kill me, then_.”

She blinks, a little uncertain as to where the words had come from. T’Kuvma narrows his eyes at her.

“ _Kill me,_ ” Michael repeats, and allows her eyes to dart to the wormhole device taking up a truly massive portion of the hollowed-out science vessel.

T’Kuvma doesn’t miss this, and growls out an exhale at her action. “ _You would like that, wouldn’t you, Traitor._ ”

He releases her now, and Michael drops to all fours. She coughs harshly, and the sleeve of her Klingon robe comes away bright with blood. _That’s new…_

“ _I will not kill you today, Traitor, but I_ will _make you suffer as she did!_ ”

Michael hears the hiss of the blade drawing from its sheath at T’Kuvma’s thigh—

 _Make his threat your own_ …

She shoves herself up onto her knees and bares her throat, her wrists, exposing veins and arteries flowing with warm blood, his for the cutting. Michael’s jaw clenches, and a small voice in the back of her mind wonders how in the hell this could possibly work.

Nevertheless, T’Kuvma hesitates, his head rearing back ever so slightly at her action in offering herself up to his torture. He studies her kneeling form with a baffled expression.

Michael allows her wheezing to become slightly more audible, her eyelids slightly more heavy. T’Kuvma narrows his eyes at her actions.

“ _You!_ ” He barks at one of the Klingon scientists standing several meters from Michael’s station, doing his best to listen without being conspicuous. “ _What’s wrong with her?_ ”

“ _My Lord T’Kuvma…_ ” Michael recognizes the voice as Il’Ran, one of the Klingon astrophysicists. “ _The traitor…she has grown weak in our ship’s atmosphere…sick with lung viruses…_ ”

Il’Ran’s large hands tremble, but he quickly hides them behind his back.

T’Kuvma looks from Il’Ran down to Michael, studying her slack face with intelligent eyes.

“ _Mmm._ ” He finally murmurs. “ _No doubt she is hoping to die under my blade._ ”

The Klingon leader slams his knife back into its sheath, and Michael trembles as she drops her wrists and lowers her head. She hopes the tremble comes off as disappointment.

In reality, it is relief.

“ _Return to your work!_ ” T’Kuvma barks at Il’ran, who inclines his head respectfully before scurrying away.

Once Il’Ran is out of sight, the Klingon leader drops his shoulders ever so slightly. His chin lifts, and he regards the massive machine in front of him, all but swarming with Klingon workers adding more and more tech with each of Michael’s breakthroughs.

Michael watches T’Kuvma’s dark, broad face as he looks up at the wormhole device, and she wonders what the Klingon leader might be contemplating.

T’Kuvma the Unforgettable is all but a legend amongst the Klingons. A brilliant leader and a genius engineer, the designer of the feared cloaking devices, the shield slicers, the life-sign imitators…the Klingon messiah is nothing short of an inspiration to his empire.

If not for his past actions in nearly killing her, and his present actions in trying to destroy the United Federation of Planets, Michael might feel inspired by him as well.

Finally, T’Kuvma turns to one of his entourage. “ _Clear the area._ ”

At his order, the Klingon guards set up a perimeter around Michael’s station, forcing away the scientists and techs nearby. They form a circle of perhaps an eight-meter diameter, if Michael were to estimate, leaving her and T’Kuvma alone at the center point, slightly obscured by the data terminals and consoles where Michael spends nearly every day reconciling time and space from the confines of the three-dimensional.

Michael painfully rises to her feet. Her lungs crackle with the motion, and she coughs wetly to clear them. Her legs tremble beneath her, her neck aches from the chokeholds, but whatever Lord T’Kuvma has planned, she resolves to face it upright.

To her immense surprise, T’Kuvma pulls a Starfleet-issue universal translating device from the pocket of his robe, setting it into an alcove of one of the terminal stands so as to obscure it from sight.

 _This was why he wanted the area clear,_ Michael realizes. _He doesn’t want anyone to see him using dirty Federation technology._

She supposes that she cannot judge too harshly. No one fully retains their principles during a war, evident in the way that she herself presently lives and works in building machines of war for the enemy.

Some might consider this deep cover, but Michael herself considers it a con so long she is uncertain that there will ever be an end to it.

Once the device activates, T’Kuvma turns back to her.

“You are going to lose this war, Traitor Burn-ham.”

Michael keeps her face schooled, but clenches her teeth behind closed lips at the word “Traitor.” T’Kuvma is using the name her Klingon captors have bequeathed to her, _Maghwl’_ , and the translation matrix is responding appropriately.

“Your Federation forces are spread thin, their strategies are pathetic. Their technology cannot compete with mine. Even the Ghost Ship…and its Ghost Captain…cannot stop the Klingons.”

Michael feels a thrill each time she hears the Klingons murmur about the _U.S.S. Discovery. Lomqa’Duj,_ the Ghost Ship, and the bloody captain who commands it.

 _Ghobe’ HoD_ , the Ghost Captain, so named for her pale complexion and the way she evades death, again and again. Her strategies are unpredictable, she knows things that no other captain knows, and with her miracle ship, she _devastates_.

But Lord T’Kuvma is a brilliant war tactician, and has responded with counterstrategies of his own, Michael knows this. It is why the fighting continues to rage. Even though the Federation has seemingly unlocked the secret to instantaneous travel, the _Discovery_ is only one ship. And the Ghost Captain is only one woman.

T’Kuvma continues to stare at her, and Michael stares back impassively. The science bay rings with the echo of drills and spanners, the chatter of hundreds of Klingon scientists hard at work, but here in Michael’s cluster of terminals, her “office,” there seems to be only silence.

T’Kuvma shakes his head and begins to pace around her in a slow, threatening circle, like a predator closing in on the kill. “L’Rell…she would have known a way to make you suffer without killing your weak Human body. She would make you reveal _everything,_ all of your secrets, big and small, and you would have lived while _begging for death_.”

The last several words come out a snarl as the Klingon messiah all but bears his teeth at her. Michael has no doubt that he speaks the utter truth.

Fists clenching now, T’Kuvma huffs out a breath. “My father taught me a great many things, Traitor Burn-ham. How to lead, how to inspire, how to terrify…but _L’Rell_ …”

T’Kuvma’s voice goes soft, his eyes even softer, and Michael cannot help but wonder what the relationship between the Klingon leader and his second had truly been.

“She was a clever being, more so than I. _I_ am a great engineer, and an even greater leader,” – There is no hint of brag or boast in his voice, Michael knows that he speaks the utter truth, — “But _she_ was a strategist of the highest degree…”

T’Kuvma narrows his eyes at her. “My father taught me to fight to win, but she taught me to always have a back-up plan, always have a --- --- -----“

The translation device fails, which Michael understands to mean that what he has just said is a colloquialism. She reaches out slowly so as not to startle the Klingon leader into lashing out, and turns the device off.

“ _Repeat,_ ” Michael grunts, and T’Kuvma does in several Klingon snarls.

Michael runs through the saying in her head, slowing it down and speeding it up, considering the syllables and their inflection.

“A finishing move…” she finally murmurs.

No, that’s not quite right. The entirety of her vocabulary flickers through Michael’s brain, both Vulcan and English as she searches for the equivalent colloquialism in a language closer to her understanding.

_Oh. Of course._

“An ace in the hole.”

She turns her head back to face T’Kuvma. “ _And I am yours?_ ”

At the question, T’Kuvma merely stares at Michael for a long time.

There is a certain _something_ hidden in his expression…something that Michael does not care for at all.

T’Kuvma continues to look at her, and to her immense surprise, his thick Klingon lips begin to curl into a smile. Clearly, he’s had some sort of idea, a good one, and Michael feels a twinge of apprehension in her chest.

She turns the translator back on with a slightly trembling hand.

“Give me your comm badge,” T’Kuvma grunts finally.

Michael raises an eyebrow in confusion. In response, T’Kuvma gestures at his own chest, tapping at the spot where Michael had once worn her Starfleet insignia. “I know you still have it, Traitor. Give it to me.”

Slowly, Michael slides her hand into the pocket of her Klingon trousers. Her Starfleet uniform is hidden away in her cell, but her badge she keeps on her always as a source of strength. A security item, one might say, if one were unaware that Michael’s Vulcan training prohibits her from ascribing to such ridiculous notions.

She fingers the cold metal in her pocket for what she understands will be the last time, before withdrawing it gently and holding it out towards T’Kuvma. The Klingon messiah clenches his jaw and takes it from her, clenching the metal insignia in one massive fist.

And for the first time since arriving aboard Michael’s ship, T’Kuvma _grins._

The expression is truly terrifying.

“Your _captain_ killed my second, and mark my words, Traitor, I will make her _suffer_ for it.”

It is irrational, but Michael has not worried overly much about Philippa’s safety during this war. She is a brilliant captain, an experienced soldier, and has Michael’s information about the Klingons in her arsenal, giving her an advantage that no one else has. In addition to the obvious, Philippa Georgiou has always seemed a force of nature to Michael, and the thought of anything snuffing out the captain’s indomitable life has always seemed ridiculous; thus she decided long ago to not waste time and energy in considering such a thing.

 _But T’Kuvma didn’t say_ death…

 _He said_ suffer…

Michael’s legs tremble and finally give way, and she slides down one of her terminals to land on the deck, head dropping back against the metal support. She would have demonstrated far greater resolve eight months ago, but then again, Michael reasons that displaying her weakness in such a way has only acted to her advantage throughout this entire interaction.

She might as well continue to lean into it.

The noise of the science bay echoes around them, the darkness of the Klingon ship casting their discussion into shadow. T’Kuvma twirls the comm-badge between his thick Klingon fingers, quiet and otherwise motionless, seemingly lost in thought.

Michael grits her teeth behind closed lips and dabs at the blood flowing from her sliced cheek, dripping onto the floor of her workstation. The Klingon messiah stands in front of her, unmoving, yet staring at her with calculating gray eyes.

The malicious expression in his face makes Michael feel as if she is being hunted, stalked slowly by a predator delighting in the helplessness of his prey before going in for the kill.

Finally, T’Kuvma seems to come to a decision. From a pocket of his robe, he withdraws a Klingon sized PADD. With several flicks of his large fingers, he pulls up a program.

“Look here, Traitor…” T’Kuvma kneels, displaying the Klingon PADD towards Michael’s face. Images and video crawl across the screen, and Michael watches mutely. It is the first media she has viewed in eight months, and she cannot help her natural interest.

The PADD displays news gathered from Federation sources. Holo-news, as well as documents and footage that are blatantly military. Michael wonders for a brief moment how the Klingons have infiltrated Starfleet security so deeply, but her focus is quickly drawn back to the videos, the only type of hard information she has gotten since her imprisonment.

_Flames, explosions, destructions, screaming, corpses scattered across the void of space, starship wreckage so massive it dwarves the moons that they orbit, sharp Klingon teeth, snarls, torture sessions—_

And then the news starts to come, and Michael recoils at it.

_“Twelve hundred dead at Starbase invasion—“_

_“Loss of Gamma Hydra space station condemns over two thousand to the void—“_

_“Vulcans Expeditionary Group reports destruction of five starships by Klingon forces—“_

Five Vulcan Expeditionary Group starships… over one thousand Vulcans…

The reports go on and on, delineating death, marking up the horror over and over again, and Michael’s Vulcan-trained brain cannot help but add up the statistics until the casualties tip one hundred thousand—

“Stop…” she groans, barely able to manage the word through the _screaming_ coming through the PADD. Faces of Humans, Andorians, Tellarites, Vulcans, so many species flash across the screen, terror and anguish clear in each expression, no doubt these are the amalgamation of months of data gathered from tech arrays and recording devices hacked by Klingon analysts.

“ _Stop…_ ” She repeats the word in Klingon, even though there is no doubt in her mind that T’Kuvma understood her the first time.

In response, T’Kuvma turns the volume on the PADD higher. Michael curls up into herself at the move, closing her eyes, gritting her teeth.

“They blame you, Traitor.” Even through the howling of the video evidence, Michael hears T’Kuvma’s voice clearly. “They blame you for it all.”

T’Kuvma bares his teeth in a grin. “ _And they are right._ ”

Michael can’t stop her body from trembling at the words.

“Why didn’t you stop me then, Traitor?” T’Kuvma murmurs. “You could have…you could have shot me through with your Human weapon _…_ but you turned your back.”

The fight on T’Kuvma’s flagship comes back to Michael now. The flames, the murky atmosphere, the crumbling staircase…

\--Sharp blow cracking down across T’Kuvma’s face—

\--whirling to grab the dropped phaser--

\--Philippa’s shout from behind her—

\--spinning immediately—

\--shot ringing true—

_\--WHITE--_

_\--FLAME—_

“Yes…” He continues. “You had your weapon…why did you not use it on me?”

Michael’s heart stops.

Her eyes stare front and center as she considers the question.

One that had never even crossed her mind during her eight months of imprisonment.

“You chose to save your _captain_ …” T’Kuvma snarls the word “captain,” and Michael remembers that it had been _her captain_ who killed Lady L’Rell.

She wonders dimly if T’Kuvma is using what he learned from L’Rell for this psychological torture, just as she had used what she learned from Philippa Georgiou only minutes earlier.

“…you turned your back to me, Traitor. You chose to save _her_ , to die on my blade, and now this war rages _endless_ because of it…”

Logic and emotion clash with deadly force inside of Michael’s head, and she gasps audibly from it, bringing her hands up to her face in a meager attempt to stifle the thunderclaps echoing in her brain.

It had never, not once over eight months, occurred to her that she might have made a different choice during the moment between picking up her phaser and shooting the Klingon poised to stab Philippa through the heart.

Never.

_It had never even been a choice._

_…_

_Should it have been?_

She feels T’Kuvma’s smile from beside her.

Michael’s logical mind wonders if she is merely succumbing to the constant mental strain of captivity at the hands of the Klingons. She speculates, from somewhere far away from herself, that perhaps the Michael Burnham of eight months ago would have had a different response to this line of questioning.

But the Michael Burnham who is presently on month eight, day two of captivity, who sees quantum equations whenever she closes her eyes, whose creation has violated the universe’s most fundamental laws, who spends an hour a day in medical breathing from an oxygen tank, whose actions have _caused the deaths of so many_ …

_Maghwl’ Burnham._

“ _Aghhh_ …” The groan rips from her chest before she can stop it, and Michael curls into herself, knees bracing high to cover her face. She does not know what to believe anymore, what part of this is real, what part is merely her irrational human heart giving over to the despair of her imprisonment, to the shame of the mutiny, the guilt at starting this war on that beacon, the grief of her own doomed love…

“I thought that Vulcans were supposed to be… _logical_ …” T’Kuvma grins. “What logic did you show that day?”

_None at all._

“It was never a choice…” Michael grates in feeble protest, gritting her teeth, tugging at her hair to try to stop her flooding, cascading thoughts.

“Wasn’t it?” T’Kuvma questions.

 _It wasn’t!_ Michael wants to shout. _It wasn’t a choice!_

It had been instinct, something faster than logic, because _that_ is battle, _that_ is fighting, there is no room for _rational thought_ —

She had turned her back to T’Kuvma and his blade, she had turned to kill the Klingon across the bridge, she had _killed him_ to save Philippa Georgiou, an action that she…

…that she would---

\-- _that she would make again---?_

 

_…_

 

_Would I?_

Michael’s fist lashes out suddenly, cracking into the terminal stand behind her with what would have been deadly force eight months ago.

Now, it only hurts her hand.

“What was it about her that caused you to do such a thing…” T’Kuvma ruminates. “I am familiar with Vulcans, _Traitor_ …I know that they will happily sacrifice the few to save the many, there are several such occurrence in their history…yet you did not…”

“ _I am not a Vulcan!_ ” Michael snarls through gritted teeth, like _that_ pitiful defense would satisfy Sarek, were she to attempt to justify her actions to him.

T’Kuvma laughs at this, as Sarek likely would, if the man ever laughed.

“So many thousands dead, Traitor…” T’Kuvma leans closer now, shifting ever so slightly into Michael plane of vision. “Tortured… _burned_ …children, families, your own comrades…though none of them would consider _you_ a comrade any longer…”

With several taps on the PADD, a new series of images flashes across the screen. Images that Michael had suspected to exist, but still feels dismayed to see personally.

“ _All sources confirm that Commander Michael Burnham of the U.S.S. Shenzhou had gone on an ill-advised flyby of a Klingon relic, where she engaged a Klingon in battle and killed him…”_

_“These actions incited the notoriously warlike Klingon race to attack in retaliation…”_

_“The former first officer attempted a mutiny of the Shenzhou shortly after, assaulting Captain Philippa Georgiou and briefly taking command of the vessel…”_

_“Her death during the Battle at the Binary Stars leaves the Federation with more questions than answers…”_

“…they all blame _you…_ ” T’Kuvma murmurs. “…and they are right _._ ”

Some part of Michael’s mind screams at her to resist, to _fight_ , that these are mere lies and slander aimed to torture her in her fragile mental state.

But this part of her mind is screaming from a great distance away, from somewhere far across the burning Vulcan desert, torn by the winds and muffled in the shifting amber sands until no longer audible.

“Why would you make such a foolish choice, _Traitor_?”

Michael’s face goes slack, as does the rest of her body, because she cannot stand this anymore, she _can’t_ …

That had been the one thing she had done that day that had gone right, the _one_ action that she was blessedly unashamed of…

 _How could saving Philippa’s life possibly have been the wrong choice?_ She wonders weakly, even as another part of her mind questions _Was it ever a choice?_ And still another part of her mind whispers _Would you do it differently if given another chance?_

And Michael considers this scenario, and rejects it violently because she---

\---she…

 

She would _not._

_Over one hundred thousand dead—tortured---burned---enslaved ---families---comrades--_

_By my actions._

With a jolt, she realizes that she is breathing heavily, her entire body curled up onto itself, her fists clenched and pulling hard at her own coily hair.

“It…was not…a _choice…_ ” Michael manages the protest feebly. She is still shaking, her heart pounds in her chest, her blood runs hot and cold at the same time, storming through her veins and arteries in a truly devastating combination.

Through this immense physical distress, Michael wonders if her weakening body is finally going to give out on her.

And surprisingly, it is this thought that knocks her out of her panic.

_I cannot die now…_

_Not when I am so close._

“Mmm.” T’Kuvma considers her response impassively, but Michael’s breathing is slowly settling, her physical controls re-erecting themselves around her, steadying her heart and calming her spasming lungs.

“Yet here you sit, Traitor…in an enemy warship, building a machine that will _destroy the Federation_ …” The Klingon messiah’s voice is louder now, which Michael considers far less terrifying. “This _was_ your choice…you continue to betray them, even now…”

_Traitor…mutineer…murderer…_

Michael feels the words like a knife. She wonders if perhaps a physical torture session might have been preferable.

T’Kuvma seem to shrug at her silence. “I suppose you do not have anything to lose…”

He rises to his feet now, looming over Michael’s propped-up form like a grim specter of death. His dark features are impassive, and Michael _does_ know how to read Klingon facial expressions after eight months of living with them.

“You will finish your work, Traitor, and you will do it soon.” T’Kuvma’s Klingon rumble is clear even through the translation matrix. “I have seen your data, your research, and it is _impressive_ …you could move well over half of my forces…”

“I could move _all_ of your forces.” Michael counters from her place on the floor. Her voice is low, her face slack and empty after T’Kuvma’s torture session.

The Klingon leader peers down at her now, a vague question in his expression.

Michael slowly, slowly moves her head to look up at him. Her dark eyes meet his.

“I could move all of your forces.” She repeats, her tone no different than it had been the first time.

The Klingon messiah and the disgraced mutineer stare at each other, in what Michael imagines to be the most pathetically stacked face-off in the history of the known universe.

Finally, T’Kuvma nods slowly.

“I believe you, Traitor Burnham.” T’Kuvma continues to eye her. Michael looks back at him, not even bothering to conceal her exhaustion, her _devastation_ at T’Kuvma’s accusations.

“Do it then.” He states finally, and tucks the PADD back into his pocket

T’Kuvma bends to pick up the universal translator, snapping it shut and tucking it into a pocket of his robe.

“ _Finish your work._ ” He bites out, voice once more a Klingon snarl. “ _I want all of my forces moved. Do this, and you will earn a quick death.”_

The Klingon leader gives her one more long, hateful look.

And with that, his long strides take him across the science bay, and his entourage quickly follows.

 

 

Michael does not move for a very long time.

Her thoughts are wild, dark red and black, howling and deathly silent at the same time.

The shame is back now, and it is worse, _so much worse…_ so many dead, so damn _many,_ so much suffering and pain, all but universal, because of her own pathetically human heart.

 _And what point was there to it all?_ Michael considers bitterly.

A love that was never going to be requited. Never. A useless emotion that had destroyed her logic, making her choose a course of action that had all but locked this war into place.

And yet…

A small voice somewhere deep inside of her questions that particular conjecture.

It points out that Philippa Georgiou had lived on after Michael had been run through on T’Kuvma’s knife. She too, had had a live phaser in her hands. And she had not been able to use the life Michael had given to her to capture T’Kuvma.

And if the captain could not do it…

…why on Earth did Michael expect herself to be able to?

But this voice is weak, too weak to compete with the burning, flexing _hatred_ Michael feels for her actions.

_\---The screams, the dead, the body count, entire systems enslaved, no match for T’Kuvma’s war technology---_

Michael slumps sideways, too tired to stay upright any longer. On the hard surface of the science deck, she blinks and speculates on whether or not crying would help. Crying is a type of emotional release, one that has left her mercifully empty and calm after past experiences in doing so.

But the tears do not come.

Michael lies on the floor between her consoles like she had so many months ago, when the techs were still beating her, when she still had an ounce of fight in her body. She inhales slowly, steadily, and wonders about the air on this ship, what particulates might be present that poison her with every breath she takes. She considers the constant murky darkness that the Klingons seem to thrive on, but that perpetually robs her of her will to live.

Her hand plunges into her pocket, but her comm badge is no longer there to run the pads of fingers over, to remind her of who she is.

_Michael…_

_Maghwl’…_

Who could really say?

Michael wonders what it might feel like if Philippa Georgiou were to walk between the consoles at this very moment.

Yes, there she is…

Michael blinks, and her captain appears. She stands straight and proud, nearly glowing with her well-known warmth. Her Starfleet uniform is resplendent in the low light of the science bay, and the gold piping hurts Michael’s eyes. Philippa’s delicate features are bright with compassion, her dark eyes sparkling with joy and mirth and just a little bit of mischief…

Michael closes her eyes and pictures Philippa folding her slender frame onto the deck in front of her, clasping Michael’s dark hands in her own pale ones, telling her…

Telling her…

Michael curls up tighter, because it isn’t _real_ , none of it is…

Her captain will never say such a thing to her…certainly not after all Michael has _done…_

Love…and _logic…_

Michael’s face twists, she curls her body tighter, because how on Earth is she supposed to reconcile these two vastly different concepts? She had had a type of answer at one time, not a perfect answer but a workable one, she can recall telling Sarek _something,_ what was it?

Michael’s brow furrows with the effort of remembering.

_Emotions…inform…my logic…_

But what the hell did that mean?

Emotions had not informed Michael’s logic on _that day_ , eight months and two days ago, when she had the chance to stop the war. No, her emotions had obliterated her logic, made her do something so incredibly foolish…

Surely Captain Georgiou would have done her duty.

She would have let Michael die to end the war, to accomplish the mission…perhaps it would have hurt her, but she would have done it without hesitation, never looking back.

 

_T’Kuvma was right…_

 

Sarek is not coming to pull her out of this. Not this time. She has not seen the man’s corporeal form since the day he plunged her into her memory of Amanda, of her adoption. They had both quietly understood that this would be the consequence of that particular action.

He had been bolstering her, giving her the strength and fortitude to do what she had to do, despite the significant physical costs of projecting himself into such an ailing body.

It will only get harder for him as she gets weaker, Michael knows this.

Very soon, she will be alone on this ship.

Alone, with her work.

_Her redemption._

And it is this thought that finally destroys all of the others currently laying waste to her mind, her heart, her soul.

_Redemption._

Michael takes a deep breath.

She is not going to reconcile these wild emotions inside of her. Whether they are real or not, whether T’Kuvma was right or not, whether she is merely succumbing to the brutal crush of captivity, Michael may never truly know, but she knows one thing beyond the shadow of a doubt.

She does not have time for this.

Every moment that she spends wallowing in grief, in regret, in foolish sentimentality, is another moment in which innocent people _die_ at the hands of the Klingons.

_Love will not save me now._

_But logic…can save everyone._

Michael will do what she must.

And so, recalling every tenet of Vulcan mind control ever taught to her by Sarek, by her teachers, by her own personal experiences, Michael Burnham suppresses every ounce of feelings she has ever had for Philippa Georgiou. She breathes, counts, and drops into meditation in her sideways position on the floor. Together with her love for her captain comes the shame of betraying her, the humiliation of working with the Klingons, the terror that accompanies her every waking moment, the longing to go home, the fear that she will die before her work is complete, the guilt that she will never get to _apologize…_

Michael is somewhat stunned at the truly massive range of emotions. She had not realized just how thoroughly her love for Philippa had bled into the entirety of her being.

_Likely another side effect of my eroded logical processes._

Nevertheless, with each breath of the toxic Klingon atmosphere, Michael’s emotions grow still and silent, washed away in the river that is serenity, logic, _peace_.

Her controls were once excellent, though they have decayed slightly under the strain of this sustained captivity. These emotions are more tucked away than anything else, obscured somewhere deep beneath an ocean of tranquility. Out of sight, out of mind, but certainly not destroyed. Michael knows full well that one does not eliminate nearly four years of powerful feelings in a single session, but this is a start, an important one, and it will be sustainable as long as she remains a prisoner aboard this ship, her environment familiar, her mission clear. And that is all that she needs.

It would take Philippa Georgiou herself to defeat the tight controls that Michael has placed over heart.

And Michael is beginning to doubt that she will ever see the woman again in this lifetime.

With the purge of her feelings comes merciful release from the brutal _shame_ that accompanied them, and Michael’s eyes flutter open once more. She sits up and breathes in again, deeply, allowing the toxic air to flow through her weakening lungs.

The wormhole device looms above her like a shade, and Michael recalls snippets of her conversation with Lord T’Kuvma. The psychological torture had been brutal, but certainly not a total loss for Michael Burnham.

“ _I can move all of your forces…_ ”

Michael exhales in satisfaction. T’Kuvma did not even suspect the double-cross.

The satisfaction morphs into grim determination, and Michael stands up once more, using her terminal stand to pull her body off of the floor.

“ _I suppose you do not have anything to lose…_ ”

T’Kuvma _had_ been right about that, Michael acknowledges as she brings up her quantum astrophysics programs once more. But he did not bother to acknowledge the ironic flip side of the statement.

_Those who have nothing to lose…_

_Have everything to gain._

Michael’s mouth hardens into a flat line. Her dark skin reflects the white glow of the Klingon glyphs, and she imagines that the light is setting her eyes ablaze.

She has a war to win.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out the only thing worse than reading a slow-burn...is fucking writing one. I am never doing this again, ever. Only one-shots from now on. Jesus.


	9. The Kelpien Gambit

 

_One month, twenty-four days before the Battle at the Binary Stars_

 

For the gravity emitters on a Starfleet ship to fail is a practically unheard-of scenario in these modern times.

So of course, it would happen to the _Shenzhou_ today of all days.

 _A truly terrible way to turn fifty-four,_ Philippa considers from her state of free-fall.

Michael, of course, looks thrilled to pieces as she soars from one side of Philippa’s quarters to the other. Once they had commed down to engineering to confirm that the _Shenzhou_ itself was not about to collapse, she had abandoned any type of professionalism and took to the air with joyful curiosity.

Michael Burnham loves space, Philippa sees it in the sparkle of her eyes whenever they encounter a new star or nebula, she sees it in the closed-mouth yet dazzling smile when she takes in readouts and charts of a stellar anomaly yet unknown by the Federation, and she feels it in Michael’s crushing disappointment whenever she turns down the other woman’s offers to take her on an EV spacewalk.

_There is a good reason I do so._

Philippa clenches her teeth, closes her eyes, and breathes slowly through her nose, in and out. Her hands grip the arms of her chair in an effort to not float away completely. Not that the _falling_ feeling in the pit of her stomach would change if that were to happen, but the rapid movement of her surroundings would overload her eyes, and through them her tenuous equilibrium.

“Philippa…?”

The voice comes from a few feet in front of her. It is concerned, but altogether too close.

_Hold it together._

“Back off, Michael.” Philippa manages weakly, before she leans over the side of the chair and vomits thoroughly.

Philippa coughs several times in an effort to clear the bile from her throat. The vomit is floating freely somewhere below her face, she knows this but refuses to open her eyes to confirm. This whole situation would be humiliating in the extreme, if she didn’t feel so god damn _sick_.

She’s brought out of her wallowing by the feeling of hands on her own. Michael’s fingers slowly slide her sleeves up, brushing over the thick web of veins and tendons in her wrists.

“What are you…”

“Shhhhh….” Michael murmurs softly as her thumbs find purchase on Philippa’s inner wrists, right between the two larger tendons that run from hand to elbow.

“This will work better if you give me your hands.”

“If I do that I will float away, Michael.” Philippa denies through clenched teeth.

Michael’s hands leave her wrists and find purchase just below her knees, sliding downwards toward the tops of her boots. “Here…wrap your feet around the chair legs, like this.”

The other woman guides Philippa’s lower legs backwards, helping her thread her feet behind the legs of the chair she sits stiffly in, knees bent well past ninety degrees and thigh muscles engaged ever so slightly. The position would probably look strange to an onlooker, but feels comfortable enough for Philippa to maintain for a long while.

The pressure of Michael’s hands leaves her legs and re-emerges on her wrists, gently clasping with long, clever fingers. Michael slowly pulls the captain’s hands away from the arms of the chair, flipping them palms-up.

The pads of her fingers are ever-so-soft as they trace over the skin of Philippa’s inner wrists. If she weren’t so nauseous and disoriented, she thinks that she might even enjoy the sensation. Michael’s thumbs return to their original position between the two large tendons of Philippa’s forearms, and she rubs gently, weighting and unweighting the digits in a soothing cycle.

 _Some type of Vulcan pressure point massage,_ Philippa assumes. She keeps her breathing controlled, her face turned up and away from her protégée, just in case the worst were to happen again.

“Nearly seven years together and I never knew you got space-sick,” Michael muses. “Does anyone know?”

“No…” Philippa manages through her gritted teeth. “Well-kept secret.”

“I won’t say a word,” Michael assures her, and there’s a smile somewhere hidden in her tone.

“I presume,” she continues, “that this is why you continuously reject my offers to perform spacewalks with me.”

“Yes.” Philippa grates out.

Michael is only half-right, but the part of her postulate that is incorrect concerning Philippa’s reluctance to spacewalk with her is due to something a little more…illogical.

Some partially formed feeling that, like a black hole or a yellow sun, Philippa has a difficult time looking at directly.

Somewhere deep in her heart, Philippa feels a bizarre, niggling sense that to view Michael Burnham in her element, out in the star-filled freedom of the cosmos, will bring _something_ crashing down upon her.

It’s not quite a feeling of doom. But it’s a feeling of, well… _inevitability._

“You know there are hyposprays for that?”

Philippa manages a weak chuckle. “There were not always.”

A flash of recollection strikes, a particularly nasty memory of being twenty-three years old and entirely too ambitious for her own good. Achieving EV clearance would bolster her standing on her first posting, and she had assumed, naively, that she could overcome her weak inner ear with sheer willpower.

She ended up in sickbay for week with a deadly lung infection after throwing up in her helmet and aspirating on it.

“The terror of…drowning in one’s own vomit tends to stick with someone.”

The thumbs pressing firm circles into her wrist pause briefly, and brush over her skin in a reassuring manner.

“Hold on just one moment.”

Philippa opens her eyes just in time to see Michael quickly unzip the top section of her uniform jacket. She wriggles her upper body out of it and uses the unoccupied sleeves to tether herself to the legs of the chair.

“The force of the pressure point massage is pushing me away from you,” she explains while tying. “Some form of anchor will help.”

It’s a resourceful move, and Philippa appreciates her protégée’s quick mind. The smooth muscles of her arms, now exposed by her partial undress, are well shaped and clearly rippling with strength.

Philippa certainly appreciates Michael Burnham’s stringent workout practices, if only for the help it seems to be giving her in securing herself in this suddenly zero-gravity environment.

Her thumbs continue to rub, but her eyes are wide with horror.

“That sounds…truly terrifying.”

“It was.” Philippa confirms, her eyes closing. Focusing as hard as she can on the movement of Michael’s thumbs, she schools herself to try and not think about her churning stomach, her spinning head. “I have not been in an EV since.”

She feels, rather than sees, Michael’s disbelief, and smirks at it. “Not so inconceivable, when one’s specialty is in diplomacy and not science.”

“ _Diplomacy._ ” Michael’s raised eyebrow is implied, and there’s a skeptical, yet teasing tone in her voice. “That’s your specialty?”

Philippa smiles suggestively. “In times of peace, yes.”

A weighted silence fills the air for several moments, because they both know that Philippa Georgiou did not earn the Star Cross, nor the Legion of Honor for her skill as a diplomat.

“You know…this seems an odd affliction for the woman who piloted the Insari Asteroid Belt.”

“Helps to keep my cover…” Philippa jokes, before swallowing quickly to steady herself. “The shuttle had gravity emitters, as long as there is an up and down…I can manage anything. And the element of control… helps immensely.”

“Mmm.” Michael makes a noncommittal sound as she mulls this over.

The massage continues, and Philippa feels herself slipping into a type of trance, despite her best efforts. Her stomach seems to be settling slowly, her head going still with the motion of Michael’s thumbs. She hears, rather than sees, Michael unzip her uniform jacket further, but makes no verbal comment. Despite her careful efforts to keep her body calm and settled, her heart skips a beat in her chest as she contemplates what the younger woman might be doing.

Michael’s thumbs slide off her wrists for a brief moment before re-finding their purchase and continuing their attentions. Philippa figures that she is getting more comfortable, settling in for the long haul.

“You don’t have to do that…”

“Do what?” Michael’s voice is a little higher-up than it was, perhaps a few inches below Philippa’s face.

“Get too comfortable. The gravity emitters will be fixed within the hour.”

Michael chuckles low in her throat, and Philippa’s breath catches at the sound.

“That is hopeful of Chief Johar to say.”

“You do not believe him?”

“I believe…” Michael states slowly, “…that he _wants_ it to be true.”

Philippa rolls her eyes from behind their closed lids. “You presume to know more than my Chief of Engineering concerning Starfleet-issue gravity emitters?”

“Of course not.” The good-natured denial is immediate. “But I do presume to know that Chief Johar is expert on the matter, thus I am certain he knows that there is no such thing as a quick fix for gravity emitters. Fleet-issue or otherwise.”

The captain feels a spike of angry frustration in her chest, because she has no interest in being helpless for longer than the hour her Chief of Engineering had promised her.

“You are not being very comforting right now, Number One.”

Michael is silent for a moment. Philippa feels the hands on her wrists soften their grip, brushing over her skin in quiet apology.

“I am sorry, Philippa.” She murmurs at last. “I know this can’t be easy for you. Especially today.”

“Not one of my finer birthdays.” Philippa sighs ruefully. “And to think it started out so well.”

And it _had_ started out so well. The crew had planned a small surprise party for her earlier, not that she had been unaware of it. Honestly, the idea that anyone on this ship could hide anything from its captain of over ten years was sheer lunacy.

Nevertheless, the gathering had been enjoyable in the extreme. Philippa Georgiou is a stern captain but a warm one as well, and she greatly enjoys mingling with her comrades and subordinates.

_Perhaps one in particular._

These hangouts in Philippa’s private quarters have been happening with increasing frequency over the last year or so, and Philippa treasures them. She can say without a hint of doubt that Michael Burnham has become one of her closest friends, and she takes great pleasure in the other woman’s solid, confident, often downright _witty_ presence.

_Who would have thought it seven years ago?_

“If you would like, I can comm Doctor Nambue for a nausea-reducer.”

“And reveal such a carefully-kept secret after all this time? I would rather you didn’t…” Philippa breathes.

“I can tell him that it’s for me.”

Philippa snorts in genuine amusement. “You perform zero-gravity spacewalks on a weekly basis, Michael, no one would ever believe such a thing.”

“Perhaps not…but there is something to be said for plausible deniability.”

“Mmm.” Philippa considers the offer. It isn’t even pride anymore that fuels this desire to keep the space sickness private. It is more that she has nearly reached a thirty-year streak of secrecy and would very much like to maintain the flawless record, for her own personal satisfaction if nothing else.

“A nausea hypo seems a strange thing to not have on-hand, considering you seem to be well aware of this affliction.” Michael points out mildly.

“I can count the number of times I have been caught by surprise on one hand, with fingers to spare,” Philippa counters. “Never seemed necessary.”

Michael is silent at this, and Philippa can practically hear her brain working.

“Perhaps not…” Michael finally answers, her voice soft. “But I hate to think of where you would be right now if I wasn’t here.”

Privately, Philippa hates to think of it as well, and she quickly recognizes the thought for its strangeness. For all of her good humor, the captain considers herself a fairly proud person, and the idea of anyone else seeing her like this sends a pang of humiliation through her body.

Apparently, Michael is the exception.

And barely after she finishes processing _that_ particular thought, her protégée speaks up again.

“My quarters are only eight meters down the corridor, I could have the hypo sent there and be back in less than thirty seconds.”

Michael’s voice is low, suggestive, and far closer than Philippa had originally assumed. The captain opens her eyes-

-to see Michael Burnham’s amused face a mere one foot from her own, and completely upside down.

The other woman’s feet are toward the ceiling, her body loose and relaxed in its inverted position. Her hands still clasp Philippa’s wrists, thumbs engaged and rubbing, arms extended at the shoulders to keep the captain’s hands at their original height.

Michael grins at her with barely-contained joy.

“Why are you upside-down, Captain?” She teases.

Philippa only stares at the woman before her. Were she a little more sentimental, she would say that she is dazzled to the point of speechlessness at Michael Burnham’s smile, once such a rare thing, now a treat that she enjoys on practically a daily basis.

One would think it would get old after so much time. But if anything, the expression has only become more intoxicating for all of the times Philippa has seen it.

_Intoxicating…_

Philippa wonders helplessly at where exactly _that_ term had come from.

“Don’t you dare quote _Alice in Wonderland_ at me right now, Commander,” she finally manages through her daze.

“Not _Alice in Wonderland_ this time.” Michael’s response is warm and lighthearted. “A different Earth classic, one a little bit more…” she tilts her head as she searches for the correct term. “Suitable to our present circumstances.”

“…Ah.” The captain barely manages to breath the word through the distraction of Michael’s face so close her own. Upside-down or not, seeing such incredible beauty up close like this was not something that Philippa Georgiou had prepared herself for when she consented to having a late dinner with her friend tonight.

She feels like she ought to look away. Like looking directly at a sun, or a star, this intensity will surely blind her.

“So…” Michael murmurs, her berry-brown eyes soft as they scan Philippa’s face. “Can I get the hypospray for you, then?”

Unable to find a clever response, Philippa only nods mutely.

Michael is gone for twenty-seven seconds, during which time Philippa orders the computer in her quarters to vacuum up the vomit, and sips at a flask of water to get the horrid taste out of her mouth. Her commander returns with the hypospray clenched between her teeth while pulling herself along the ceiling like some sort of aerial space-bandit. Her gaze flickers down to Philippa as she does so, and she quirks her eyebrows playfully at the captain, dark eyes dancing with merriment.

Philippa tries to control it, her lips tremble with the effort, but in the end she cannot help but smile back, because the other woman’s happiness is nothing short of _dazzling_.

Michael plants her feet on the ceiling and reaches down with her arm, which Philippa grasps to anchor her in place. Instead of taking the proffered hypospray from Michael’s hand, the captain only bares her neck, the offer obvious.

_Why am I doing this?_

She has no good answer.

Philippa holds her breath as Michael gently touches the spray to her neck. It’s only a cold metal nozzle, barely two millimeters in diameter, yet the touch sends tendrils of sensation through nerve endings made hypersensitive by…whatever seems to be happening here.

Philippa can’t help but shiver ever so slightly.

Michael hesitates just a moment before discharging the spray. She does not linger, nor does she initiate any kind of skin-to-skin contact, yet the move feels intensely intimate. The air itself seems to carry a charge, the tension so thick they can barely breath through it.

“Any better?” Michael’s voice comes out as a whisper from where she floats mere inches away.

Philippa manages a nod, unable to speak at the sight of those liquid brown eyes aimed at her. “Much better.”

It’s the truth. There is still no gravity, they are still in free-fall, but the captain’s stomach feels mercifully quiet, her brain no longer spinning in her skull.

“Thank you,” she murmurs. Michael’s face is so close, and perhaps it’s the inverted perspective, but Philippa feels like she’s never actually, truly _seen_ it before. Not in this way. Clearly there’s been some sort of veil over her eyes for the past six and half years, some sort of holo-projection preventing her from fully understanding that her first officer, her protégée, her friend…

…is the most wonderful thing she has _ever_ seen.

And Philippa Georgiou has seen a great deal in her fifty-four years of life.

Michael smiles slowly, slowly, but it’s warm and genuine and Philippa feels like she’s been struck by lightning, the electricity flowing down her spine, warming her face and making her heart flutter in her chest.

_God help me…_

Michael allows the hypospray to float away, and reaches down with her other arm. Philippa takes it. She allows her feet to uncoil from the chair legs, and Michael gently pulls her into the air.

Philippa’s eyes widen as her feet leave solid ground.

 

 

Her birthday gift from Michael arrives the next day. An anti-motion sickness hypospray, clearly sized to fit into the pockets of notoriously skin-tight Starfleet uniforms. The taped note gives nod to the woman’s favorite Earth story, merely reading “Inject Me.”

 

 

 

 

 

* *

 

 

 

 

The captain’s hand plunges into her pocket. With gritted teeth, she grips the side of the corridor with her opposite hand to keep herself anchored in the zero-G environment.

She’s carried this hypospray for exactly one year, today.

 _This is truly ridiculous poetic foreshadowing,_ Philippa considers grimly as she discharges the spray into her own neck.

The away-team watches her do this with wide eyes, and she huffs out an exasperated sigh. She understands that it must be somewhat shocking to them that the legendary Captain Georgiou gets space-sick, but for God’s sake they don’t have time for this.

Raiding the husk of this Klingon ship is at least a simple in-and-out mission. New intel from Starfleet command has led the _Discovery_ on a merry chase through thirty systems, eleven species (including Klingon) and dozens of deep space battles. The target of the chase is Lord T’Kuvma himself, the Klingon leader finally reappearing after so many months of elusivity.

His mocking transmissions had filled Georgiou with helpless fury.

The chase has finally ended here on this ship, the final vessel in T’Kuvma’s entourage to be disabled. The fragments of the vessel, disabled in the stellar combat, will hopefully yield more information than what Michael can easily give them.

Not that Sarek’s mind-melds have yielded anything useful in the past several months.

It’s a science vessel, Georgiou knows this from the layout and the construction. There are no life-signs on board, but war technology is ever evolving, the Klingon shield-slicers and life-sign imitators becoming more advanced and deadly by the day, and there is a chance that the Klingons are somehow cloaking their presence.

Her phaser is armed and ready.

She, Tyler, and Yan pull themselves along the wall of the corridor, moving deeper into the Klingon wreck. Floating in complete free-fall is still slightly disorienting, but Tyler and Yan seem unfazed, and the captain refuses to be the weakest link on this mission. The gravity failure should not been a surprise, clearly she has been spoiled by the state-of-the-art design of her own ship, the relative comfort that she gets to exist in on most days of this war.

 _I’ve not been a foot soldier in a long time,_ she considers ruefully, and makes a mental note to ask Doctor Culber for another pocket-sized hypospray to replace the one she has just used.

“Captain, picking up on human organic material in the chamber just ahead.” Yan looks down at his tricorder as he speaks. “Not much of it…possibly just one.”

“But no life-signs…” Philippa murmurs.

Tyler muses as he pulls himself along the wall. “Why would they keep a human prisoner in a science vessel?”

Philippa’s blood runs cold.

The length of time it takes for them to finally reach the doorway is interminable, but finally, _finally,_ they reach the barrier, and Tyler rips open the control panel. Zero gravity is tricky to work around, but they eventually find a manageable way to open the doors manually.

Yan claps a hand over his mouth and nose at the sight of the single corpse propped up against a center bulkhead. Tyler exhales his horror, and Georgiou manages not to gag, but it’s a near thing.

The body is in the middle stages of decomposition, and has very obviously been brutalized. Eyes ripped from their sockets, nails pried from the nail beds, cuts and burns rendering the face unrecognizable.

Almost.

Something twinges in the captain’s brain, and she meanders slowly forward until she reaches the corpse. With a shaking hand, she removes the Starfleet insignia from the chest.

 

 

**Burnham**

**Michael**

**SY4266**

**023SHN**

 

 

_It’s not her._

The thought is weak, barely a whisper in her consciousness, but she clings to it like a handhold in a depressurized corridor.

_It's not her._

Sarek would have told her. Sarek _felt_ Michael die on the bridge of T’Kuvma’s flagship ten months ago, he would have told her had he felt it again.

“Time…” her whisper is hoarse and strangled, and Philippa swallows weakly before trying again. “Time of death for this corpse?”

Yan looks down at his tricorder, and back up towards her. “Approximately two months, ago, Captain.”

Philippa supposes she ought to relax, because Sarek’s last (barely successful) mind-meld was a mere five days previous, but the horrified ache in her chest does not diminish.

_It definitely isn’t her._

But the Klingons had reason to fake her death, to make it look recent, and agonizing.

_Why? Why would they?_

“The DNA readings for this corpse are corrupted…” Yan mutters from beside her. “I can’t get a conclusive read.”

“That makes sense…” Philippa murmurs, and Yan looks to her in confusion. She doesn’t have the time or the energy to get into this now, why or how this particular body is a fake, and shakes her head at the man in response. As she stares at the body propped up by the central pillar, Philippa’s brain makes the connections quickly.

Time of death for this corpse was two months ago.

She killed Lady L’Rell two months ago.

The Starfleet insignia is a cold weight in her fingertips, and Philippa recalls that the simplest conclusion is often the correct one.

_This is vengeance._

_T’Kuvma means for me to think he has tortured my Number One to death._

She knows, logically, that the body is a fake, that it cannot be her, it _cannot_ be her, but the fact remains that even though Michael Burnham is not dead, the acts of torture inflicted upon this corpse could very well be a reality. Philippa wants to unclench her teeth and _howl_ at the horrific possibility.

God help them all, two months…two agonizing _months_ they’d been chasing Lord T’Kuvma, with every lead pointing them in a new direction, only to for the trail to run cold here, on this ship, with this corpse, at this dead _fucking_ end, on today of all days, T’Kuvma’s mocking laughter all but rings in her ears--

Her phaser whips up before she has time to stop it, pointed at the corpse, her face twisted in fury.

“Captain!” Tyler shouts, shoving her phaser arm away from the target. “What the hell?”

“Stand down, Tyler,” she mutters coldly, slowly raising the phaser once more. Tyler pushes himself in front of it, eyes wide with distress.

“What are you doing? This could be somebody’s friend, somebody’s partner!”

“IT WAS!” Georgiou’s eyes are wild as she yells at her Chief of Security. He jerks backwards, falling silent and staring at her with a bewildered, questioning gaze.

Philippa gasps out a steadying breath. And another. Her shoulders slump, and her phaser hand drops limply to her side.

“She was.”

 

 

 

“Airiam, inform Stamets to prep for a jump to these coordinates.” Georgiou lists a string of numbers and letters as she strides onto the bridge. “Richter, send a message to Starfleet command and inform them of the science vessel’s coordinates. It should be brought back for further study.”

“Captain…” Commander Saru asks hesitatingly. “Could we not simply…lock a tractor beam onto it and warp to Starbase 48? It would be a mere five hours away.”

Georgiou shakes her head. “Not a risk I want to take after the past two months, there could be Klingon vessels locking onto our position as we speak.”

“So you will allow some other ship to take that risk?” Saru demands.

The captain whips her head around at the insubordinate comment, and Detmer and Owosekun turn in their seats to stare with shocked eyes at the Kelpien man. Saru appears to realize what he’s just said, and looks terrified for a brief moment.

Remarkably, he then straightens where he stands, accepting Georgiou’s glare with impassivity.

“Yes, Mr. Saru, I will.” Georgiou finally states, hardness in her every syllable. “We cannot risk the _Discovery_ , not at this stage of the war. Not while T’Kuvma goes free.”

Not to mention…she cannot physically stomach the idea of occupying the same region of space as T’Kuvma’s devastating act of vengeance any longer.

She looks back to Airiam. “Is Stamets ready?”

“Aye, Captain, and waiting your command.”

Georgiou gives a clipped nod.

“Black Alert.”

The lights of the bridge dim as the _Discovery_ jumps to the mycelium network, and Philippa sinks into the captain’s chair with a sigh of defeat.

_She isn’t dead._

But officially, she is.

And she has been for over ten months.

Despite the brutal horror of their find aboard the Klingon husk, the Starfleet insignia is an almost comforting weight in Philippa’s hand. A piece of Michael Burnham, pinned above the woman’s heart every day for seven years, delivered across hundreds of thousands of light years to reach her on this day, of all days.

Surely not a coincidence, if T’Kuvma’s revenge was as thoroughly planned out as she suspects it to be.

_Happy Birthday, Pippa._

The captain wonders at how T’Kuvma had come by this sigil. The act of vengeance she had discovered with the away-team was a brutally personal one, no doubt the Klingon leader had paid Michael a visit, wherever she currently labored, and took it from her himself.

The thought makes Philippa want to retch.

“Commander Saru, you have the bridge,” she mutters, and strides to her ready-room.

At this point, she has no more tears to cry, nevertheless, the ready-room offers a respite from the wondering gazes of her crew. It is a place designed for captains to show emotions unsuitable for command. Indecision, fear, sadness…

Philippa sighs as she stares out the window into the inky blackness of space. The metal fragment turns over and over in her fingers, the imprinted words flashing at the corner of her vision.

Philippa Georgiou is at her wits end.

The two month long chase has been debilitating, for both herself and her crew. T’Kuvma’s tactics to foil the spore drive were ingenious and devastating, his convoy splitting apart through warp and emerging at every corner of the galaxy, dozens of possible targets for the _Discovery_ to painstakingly pick through, with the remaining Klingon vessels reconvening and disappearing into warp as they did so.

Maddening. Utterly maddening, horrifically stressful, and a complete _fucking_ waste of time.

Philippa desperately wants to break something. She wants to rage and scream and put a fist through the glass of her ready room cabinets, but her hands only slide up her face and into her long hair, pulling harshly at the roots in a pain that, she feels, is well deserved.

Michael’s comm-badge sits on the window ledge, glowing softly in the starlight.

And the woman herself is gone without a trace.

Just over ten months of this horrible situation, and Philippa is no closer to bringing it to a conclusion. Her strain is becoming visible, she knows. She feels like a raw nerve most days, anxious and worried over a situation that she has absolutely no control over, and the anxiety typically manifests itself as anger.

Yelling at her crew is not something Philippa is proud of, but she cannot stop it.

If she were her superior officer, she would tell herself to talk to Nguyen, the ship’s counselor. But to do so would require revealing the source of this problem, which would compromise the mission. The catch-22 is uniquely unbearable.

Ten months, eight days, is a long time to feel helpless.

The door of her ready-room chimes.

_Gods, what now?_

“Come,” Philippa states dully.

She turns to see the tall, lanky form of her First Officer, Commander Saru. He looks hesitant in the extreme, approaching her as if she is a wild animal baring its teeth to strike.

“Yes, Mr. Saru?” Philippa looks up at him, correctly reading the discomfort in his expression.

“Captain…” Saru begins, his mellow voice tinged only slightly with discomfort. “Lieutenant Tyler spoke briefly to me about the away-mission to the Klingon science vessel…”

The Kelpien man visibly steels himself, straightening his spine and drawing up to his full height.

“I feel that it is within my rights as First Officer to air my concerns towards your mental state.”

Philippa blinks.

 

_It’s about damn time._

She feels a bizarre urge to laugh, which she immediately forces down.

“Air away, Mr. Saru.” Philippa gestures at him to continue, and Saru looks astonished at her lack of fight concerning the topic.

“You…do not seem like yourself, Captain. Lately, you have been short with the crew, yelling at others…just four days ago you made Lieutenant Detmer cry-”

-Philippa knows that Detmer would have likely done so without her help, the woman is notoriously emotional under pressure, but she decides to let Saru continue.

“…and Richter is considering applying for a transfer to a non-bridge position.”

The captain _is_ caught off-guard at that revelation.

“I understand that you are under a great deal of pressure to win this war, however…” Saru shrugs his arms helplessly. “I am worried that you may be…cracking under it.”

Philippa swallows shakily and looks out through the window again, wondering how she ought to respond to her First Officer’s concern.

It is touching, she supposes. The Kelpien man obviously cares for her, not surprising after well over eight years together. But this entire confrontation is a brutal reminder that Saru is not the person whose comfort she craves so desperately, every minute of every day.

_It isn’t her._

“Did Tyler inform you of our discovery aboard the science vessel?” She manages to whisper.

Saru’s mouth opens and closes. “Not in any great detail, but he did…heavily imply that I ought to talk to you about it. What exactly did you discover?”

As an answer, Philippa slides the Starfleet badge across the window ledge towards her First Officer without comment. Saru’s green-yellow eyes widen in dismay as he takes in the words carved in the metal. Slowly, tenderly, he picks it up in his large Kelpien hands, turning it over in his fingertips.

“I am so sorry, Captain,” he finally murmurs.

Philippa trembles. “Not as sorry as I am, Saru.”

“I do not doubt that.”

The statement feels slightly loaded, and Philippa turns her head to look up at her First Officer, her question clearly written in her features. Saru looks surprisingly not-nervous under her stare, which confuses her further.

“I am sorry for everything, Captain. Everything that happened.”

Philippa knows what Saru speaks of, and her heart gives a pang in her chest.

“You deserved far more.” Saru’s voice is soft, gentle, and sad beyond belief. There’s a knowing tone to it, which Philippa manages to pick up on even in her emotionally compromised state.

_How does my First Officer know of this when I barely knew myself?_

She is not angry. Only tired.

So _tired._

“Was it really so obvious?” Philippa asks in resignation. It is not proper, not professional, but she’s far past the point of caring about either one.

Saru twitches. “Permission to…not answer that?”

The chuckle bubbles up in her chest before she can stop it, and Philippa covers her mouth with her hand.

“At ease, Mr. Saru.”

It all feels a little ridiculous, but then again the universe has seemed upside-down and inverted since the day of the Battle at the Binary Stars, so damn long ago.

“Captain, have you spoken to anyone, about that day? A grief counselor, a therapist…anyone at all?”

Philippa manages a quiet huff, and shakes her head in denial. She does not want to talk about that day, she does not even want to _think_ about that day. To her right and above her comes the odd clicking sound of Saru’s throat pouches flaring, as they tend to when something triggers his threat instincts.

“Well, clearly you need to!” He exclaims, and Philippa jerks her head to stare at him, one of her eyebrows raised in surprise at his uncharacteristic lack of deference. “I did not beam you off of T’Kuvma’s ship just so you could fall apart from your own stubborn grief ten months later!”

“Then why did you beam me off T’Kuvma’s ship, Saru?!” Philippa demands, too astonished at her typically meek first officer’s commentary to control her reaction, the other half of the demand silent but obviously implied…

- _before I could get to T’Kuvma, before I could get to Michael-_

“I did so because--!”

Saru cuts off the exclamation before he can continue. He looks downwards for a moment, his lanky body trembling with emotion.

“…because it would have broken her heart, had I allowed anything to happen to you.”

Philippa’s jaw drops.

Her anger leaves as quickly as it arrived, replaced by utter astonishment, as well as cold, hard shame.

_So not only my first officer, but my second officer as well, were willing to put my safety above that of the mission._

A part of her is touched by her people’s obvious devotion to her, but this part is easily dwarfed by the harsh, howling _devastation_ that she had not done the same for them.

For _her._

In his place next to her, Saru gazes with sad green eyes at the comm-badge in his fingers. “Burnham and I, we were never truly _friends…_ but I do miss her as well, Captain.”

And by the _Gods_ , does Philippa miss Michael. She misses her in the mornings and in the evenings, she misses her when she goes to the mess hall and sees the faces of her crew looking toward her, she misses her when she gazes out of the windows into the brilliant starry void at 0315 hours, she misses her when she and the crew score a victory against enemy forces, and when they fail as well.

Sometimes, when she’s very tired or very sad, she hears Michael’s voice speaking softly to her in the wee hours of gamma shift, she sees her dark, beautiful face peering at her over a PADD from the corner of the mess hall, feels her proud hand on her shoulder after she’s gotten the _Discovery_ out of yet another critical situation.

No matter where she is, what she’s doing, Michael Burnham trails after her like a benevolent ghost, just out of sight, but never, _ever_ out of mind.

Saru pretends to not see the tears trail down Philippa’s cheeks, but the captain brushes them away without embarrassment.

They’re at war. Who the hell cares?

“The fight on the warship…” Philippa murmurs, grating through each syllable. Saru nods gently for her to go on; he knows that she’s never spoken at length or in detail about the topic, even to the war committee that debriefed her after the Battle at the Binary Stars.

But Philippa finds that she badly wants to unburden herself of this knowledge.

“She saved my life, Saru.”

The statement hangs in the air between them.

“There was a Klingon…poised to stab me through the heart, and she…turned away from her own fight and shot him.”

The memories cascade through the captain’s brain like an open faucet, like a tidal wave through a floodgate.

“She was fighting T’Kuvma himself _, and she turned her back_.” Philippa trembles, barely managing the words, her voice on a critical tailspin towards becoming hysterical. “I think about it every day, Saru, I pick the fight apart over and over again, and…and I am _certain_ that she knowingly turned away from him.”

Saru’s bright, alien eyes widen at the revelation.

“She must have known she would be gutted!” Philippa jerks her head to look at her First Officer, confusion and pain written in every feature of her face. “There is no way that she didn’t, expert fighter as she was! She left him with such an opening-“

Philippa clasps a hand over her mouth, as if to keep the speculations from spilling out. She’s never spoken these thoughts aloud, and somehow the act of doing so makes the conjecture into certainty, makes theory become fact.

Michael Burnham had sacrificed herself… _for her._

That brief, stunning smile on Michael’s face after the white Klingon had dropped to the ground, before the mek’leth had split her in two…

She’d sacrificed herself for Philippa, and she’d done it happily.

Philippa Georgiou wonders how it could be possible to feel this _much_ without immediately dying from it.

“Her courage always inspired me.”

Saru’s mellow voice cuts through her despair-filled silence. Oddly, the Kelpien doesn’t look even a little bit pained at his own admission. “Frustrated me to no end, of course…but inspired me as well. Her humanity was always so very obvious, for one raised Vulcan.”

Philippa lets out a watery chuckle at that, because it was the truth. Though Vulcan-raised, Michael Burnham had blossomed in the ranks of a human crew, her passion softening the hard edges of her logic, her emotions overcoming the cold shell placed around her by Vulcan culture.

She’d been utterly _brilliant._

“Perhaps it is not something I should say, Captain, but…“ Saru hesitates. “If what you suspect is true, then…I cannot imagine that she died feeling anything but happiness.”

Philippa feels this like a punch to the gut.

It is not Saru’s fault, the man has no knowledge of what else happened on that bridge, of Philippa’s own hesitation that resulted in Michael’s stabbing, her death, but _Gods,_ this entire conversation is a brutal reminder of her own miserable failure those many months ago _…_

Ten months, eight days, fourteen hours…

So much time to spend crunching random data on all things Klingon, from engineering to culture to lavatory design (and that last one _had_ turned out to be critical, to the captain’s immense surprise), so many hours pouring over plans and strategy, wringing every scrap of use from information so mundane, and all the while studiously ignoring the fact that all of it came from _her_ …

Quadrants away aboard a Klingon war-bird, breathing a toxic atmosphere, brutalized for sport, all alone while performing an impossible, inconceivable task _…_

 _She is living in hell, and I am here doing_ nothing _about it!_

There’s a sharp, splintering _crack_ , and both Saru and Philippa start in surprise.

Philippa looks down at her forearm, which had followed her clenched fist through the glass panel of the cabinet underneath the window.

She sighs shakily and withdraws the arm from the broken pane of glass, keeping her gaze averted from Saru. It isn’t _shame,_ not precisely, but she certainly does not feel proud of herself right now.

To her surprise, the Kelpien man takes her bleeding hand in his own significantly larger one with no hint of nerves or judgment.

“Hmm,” he considers. “You are lucky that did not appear to nick any tendons or arteries.”

She is _damn_ lucky, Philippa knows this from having experienced both, and under the same circumstances.

_But I am no longer a hotheaded twenty-five year old ensign._

Punching things in frustration…yelling at her crew…unable to focus on the task at hand…

_I cannot go on like this._

The thought echoes in her head like a gong, bringing clarity with it.

“Saru…” Philippa takes a steadying breath, because what she is about to do, what she is about to _share,_ might very well have significant consequences…

But she’s been in a leadership role for many, many years, and knows the potential pitfalls of taking on too much, of what happens when the strain of command finally snaps onto those who bear its burden.

Not to mention…as a prey species, Saru must have fought his every instinct, every fiber of his being to confront her in this way.

Philippa finds her regard for the Kelpien man jumping a few notches.

“Michael…” the captain begins. “She is not dead, Saru.”

Saru goes still.

“The Klingons have her, she is being held hostage on one of their science vessels.”

“But…” Saru hesitates, “…the body you discovered…”

“A fake,” Philippa replies. “Not even a particularly good one. T’Kuvma’s revenge for slaying his second-in-command, aimed at me specifically.” She shakes her head, and some of the anger from earlier in the day returns. “Two straight _months_ of chasing, all leading up to today’s find…he has been planning this for a very long time.”

Philippa’s jaw clenches, but she takes a breath and forces down her fury. “Nevertheless, I _know_ that Michael lives, Saru…”

She looks up at her first officer with powerful certainty, clear eyes and a steady gaze. At this moment, Philippa feels like the captain she once was. Strong in her convictions, true to her principles…

“I know it beyond the _shadow_ of a doubt.”

There’s a beat of silence, then her First Officer nods slowly, eyes wide. “This is…this is how your tactics always work! With the virus…the Klingon formations…the location of the Osh’Vadnr base.”

Philippa nods in confirmation, a little impressed at Saru’s quick thinking, and more than a little relieved at his willingness to believe her.

“Through her Vulcan guardian, Michael transmits via mind-meld what information she can obtain on the enemy. It is an untraceable form of communication…one that the Klingons can never uncover.”

“ _Astonishing_ …” Saru murmurs, eyes still wide with the revelation. In the next moment, he cocks his head, perhaps picking up on the undertone in her voice. “…However…?” He prompts.

Philippa flinches.

“The transmissions…they’ve become spotty. Ambassador Sarek is having a great deal of trouble forming the connection.”

Saru’s green eyes flicker as he puts the pieces together.

“She is…unwell?”

Philippa huffs, running a hand over her mouth in distress. “I suspect she is quite a bit more than unwell.”

The captain and commander gaze out at the stars in silence for several moments.

“This is the source of your…emotional turmoil, the past several months.” Saru finally manages. “This is why you were so intent on the chase.”

Philippa nods silently. “T’Kuvma finally reappearing, our first lead since this war started…not to mention we were chasing a heavily-protected science vessel. By all indications, it seemed to fit the profile of the ship where Michael is being held.”

The implication lies between them, silent and unprovoked.

 

_All of it had been a ruse._

 

 _"_ He wasted his own time as well, Captain," Saru points out gently, and Philippa acknowledges the point with a weak nod. It's a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

Saru ducks his head, pursing his thin Kelpien lips in thought.

“I suppose an extraction via spore drive is out of the question?”

“Her ship moves constantly, and is always hidden by their cloaking technology,” Philippa replies. “Even the Klingons on board the vessel do not know their precise location.”

“Somewhat similar to the _Discovery_ then.” Saru acknowledges.

“The parallels are uncanny at times,” the captain agrees.

It’s the truth, always has been. The Klingon Empire and the United Federation of Planets both working on teleportation technology, a cold war of sorts that will be the deliverance of the side that cracks the code first.

“Captain…to what end is she being held captive?”

Philippa nods her head in approval. The Kelpien man is becoming shrewder by the day, and she is proud of him for it.

“They are forcing her to design wormhole technology for them, to transport their ships instantaneously.”

“And she is… _complying_?” Saru looks positively floored. “That does not sound like her.”

“No…no it does not.” Philippa trails off, running a hand across the back of her neck.

The captain and her first officer speculate in silence for a moment, staring out at the glimmering stars through the window of the ready room.

“You think there is something more to the situation?” Saru finally questions.

Philippa nods slowly. “Sarek has implied as much, though he has been feeling the strain of the difficult mind-melds. He has not been able to get much solid information.”

Saru nods and looks down, his green-yellow eyes darting back and forth. The captain has the feeling that he is doing some very quick thinking.

“I believe that she is plotting something,” Saru finally announces.

Philippa looks towards him in surprise, eyebrow raised. “And what exactly do you base this conclusion on, Mr. Saru?”

It is a question she asks not out of doubt, but out of curiosity. Saru, like Michael Burnham, is a scientist first and foremost, and violently rejects hopeful speculations and theorizing in the absence of evidence.

Philippa is powerfully curious to see how he will back up this conclusion.

The query hangs in the air between them, and the Kelpien man finally shrugs. “Well, it _is_ Burnham, Captain.”

A beat of silence passes.

Finally, a reluctant smile tugs its way across Philippa’s lips. It is such a simple answer, yet the truth of it all but bowls her over.

Michael Burnham, who guided their ship through the universally-feared Maw as a mere ensign, who killed a Klingon warrior in the vacuum of space unarmed, who mutinied without a second thought to save the _Shenzhou_ , who had slipped ever so subtly through Philippa’s defenses to take her heart in the palms of her smooth, dark hands…

If any being in the whole wide universe were to be able to throw one over on the Klingons, it would be her former commander, Michael Burnham of the _U.S.S. Shenzhou._

And for the first time in many, many weeks, Philippa Georgiou feels _hope,_ beating powerfully in her chest like a timpani drum. Her hand still stings and bleeds; nevertheless, she makes meaningful eye contact with her first officer and gives him a nod of utmost respect. Saru looks pleased beyond belief at the consideration.

And errant thought crosses her mind, and Philippa smiles at it.

_Perhaps it is time I start calling him my Number One._

The captain and her first officer gaze out at the stars in companionable silence. Michael Burnham’s comm badge lays on the window ledge between them, illuminated by the starlight, and despite the brutal desperation of the past several months, Philippa feels the burden between her shoulders grow lighter, just a little bit, now that she is no longer carrying it alone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tried to put a better font for the comm badge, but turns out if you want to do that you have to move heaven and Earth itself, learn a new programming language, negotiate a deal with the devil, and stay up til two in the morning swearing at your computer.
> 
> I couldn't even single-space it without Ao3 flipping its shit. If I ever figure it out I'll edit the damn thing.
> 
> Also I made this tumblr, it's nomi--sunrider.tumblr.com. Not quite sure how this works but I want to be more involved in fandom. Send me asks and prompts!


	10. Message in a Bottle

 

_The long game…_

Michael muses over the Human term as she staggers through the corridor of Unknown Klingon Science Vessel, proceeding down the same route she has taken for nearly six months now. Her captain had taught her this term a very long time ago, and Michael had found it difficult to forget due to the circumstances of the lesson…

_\-- Blows falling —_

_\--Cut in tight—_

_\-- skin sweat warm grins muscle spasms---_

_\-- flushed cheeks panting racing hearts laughter--_

Michael shakes herself out of the memory, which will no doubt lead to emotions if given the chance to continue. She plods along, one foot in front of the other, every step tiring.

The circuit was six hundred and seventy-two steps when Michael first began walking, a mere two days after the mind-meld in which Sarek had plunged her into her memory of her childhood on Vulcan.

Yesterday, it was seven hundred and ninety-two steps.

Michael’s strides have shortened, an effect of her ailing body. In a strange way, this has provided her with a means of measuring her rate of weakness. Simple cross-division at the end of each walk gives her a workable figure.

Yesterday, Michael marked a 15.15 percent decrease in walking ability from when she began this circuit nearly six months ago.

She hobbles past Tars and Fan’un hard at work at one of the Klingon-style Jeffries Tubes. They do not even spare her a glance, so inured they are to her bizarre routine. Michael edges to the far right of the corridor and keeps her eyes averted from Loq’ell and Kinna, both of whom have enjoyed beating her in the past. The two women keep walking, only sneering in her direction.

No one has laid a hand on her in months, which Michael considers a blessing.

This will no doubt change after what she is about to do.

_The long con, if you prefer…_

The corridors are still far darker than the Human vessel on which Michael had spent seven years of her life. The walls are a mud brown, the floors a strange type of patterned paneling that Michael considers overkill, considering no one much looks at them.

But it is Klingon culture, she supposes.

She turns a sharp left into an alcove, where an access ladder is built to span from Deck One to Deck Eight. There are many such access ladders aboard this vessel, stairs and turbolifts as well, and Michael knows them all. But this ladder is the most convenient for where she needs to go; thus, she has built it into this circuit.

Ascending the ladder takes a great deal out of her after just over a year of captivity aboard this poison ship. She stops on every deck to breath, to rest, to gather herself. Michael’s fingertips tingle from lack of oxygen, and she leans against the wall beside the ladder to wheeze.

The lung infection is all but permanent at this point.

Which is acceptable, considering she will not be needing her lungs much longer.

Klingon circadian rhythms do not quite match up with Michael’s Human schedule, so it has taken her a long time to learn shift changes during what passes for day and night and in between aboard this vessel. Nevertheless, through painfully gathered evidence over six months of walking the same route at all hours, Michael knows what she needs to know. And she knows that at this particular time, no one will be ascending or descending these ladders.

So she takes her time, steeling her nerves for this task that has required such a meticulous, careful set-up.

Finally, after three hundred and eighteen steps, including five levels of access ladders, Michael reaches the highest level of the science vessel. She proceeds down the dim corridor, towards the chalices of fire burning on either side of the bulkhead door at the far end.

Her Klingon captors had given her a great deal of trouble the first several times she had attempted to enter the bridge. They had physically ejected her, pushed her, yelled at her, and so on. But Michael had quietly continued to appear, every day, day after day, until those working on the bridge gave up and grudgingly allowed her presence.

They had watched her closely for well over two months, making sure that she did nothing untoward. Michael understood their reasoning, and allowed them to do so. But her perpetual silence, her shuffle, her downcast expression, her refusal to make eye contact, all contributed to her air of general weakness and defeat, and the Klingons have long since stopped watching her.

Which is the only way that Michael knows she has a chance at this.

At this particular time aboard this particular vessel, a shift change is occurring, and the bridge is in a state of crossover. However, this particular shift change is what Michael hypothesizes to be the equivalent of beta to gamma aboard a Federation ship, meaning that every participant in the shift change is weary, tired, and unfocused.

They all know to expect the Traitor’s presence by now, well into month six of her odd daily ritual walk. None of the Klingons spare Michael a second glance as she hobbles onto the bridge.

Commander Ekhol has the bridge, as she typically does at this time. Gorrd will be relieving her, and they will bicker as they always do. Kolla is slumped over the Klingon equivalent of a science console, likely intoxicated. Vara and several other technicians are busy checking the recently installed shield-slicing tech, running tests of the software and shield overlays. None of this particularly matters, because Michael knows that at this time, Klun has left early in annoyance and Josso is running late, as always.

Leaving a fifteen to thirty-two second window during which the communications console will be unmanned.

The comm relays on this ship have been greatly weakened to feed the massive power demands of the wormhole device, Michael understands this. Hell, she recommended that particular course of action herself.

Thus, her message is text only, and short.

She slips quietly to the communications console, one that she has taken great pains in studying during the past two months of overhauling the bridge’s circuitry in preparation for the wormhole device’s first firing. The entire system is thoroughly Klingon, but Michael is familiar enough with it by now to do this with efficiency.

Sarek’s mind-melds have been nonfunctional for a long while, but they had both known that was coming, and Michael had planned for it accordingly.

Her filched data chip enters the terminal port, and the transfer process takes a mere two point eight seconds. With several quick flicks of her fingers across the screen and a rapid input of code, the message is sent. Her wrist flashes down to snag the data chip out of the terminal, and Michael continues her stumbling walk.

_Elapsed time of fourteen seconds…_

Slightly longer than the simulations she had run in her head during her past circuits, but not critically so. Using as much control as she can, Michael feigns an eye-rub and deposits the chip silently into her mouth. It crunches between her teeth, and the act of swallowing is painful, but doable.

There will be evidence of her actions within the system logs, Michael knows. This is a top-secret science vessel, and every signal in or out is monitored heavily. Michael understands full well that she will get caught, and no doubt punished severely. But it would be foolish to give her captors more information than they already have.

In another fourteen seconds, Michael’s lap around the bridge is complete. She exits silently just Josso enters, growling out an excuse for his lateness. The burning chalices warm her body as she leaves, and she feels tempted to linger for a brief moment, just to bask in the heat.

_Difficult to believe that a year ago, I found this ship uncomfortable hot._

Michael’s lip quirks at the wry thought, though it is a good deal less amusing when she considers the actual reason why she currently wears a thick, long-sleeved Klingon robe altered to fit her skinny frame.

Her body no longer has the energy to maintain her usual core temperature.

She continues on her return journey back to her cell, the same way that she came. Michael leans against the wall to cough several times during the route, and uses this time to take into account her physical state.

It would be a lie to say that she is unable to walk upright. The limp too, is exaggerated.

 

_The long game…or long con if you prefer…_

Michael Burnham is weak, sick, and likely dying, there is no doubt in her mind about that. But there must be no doubt in her captors’ minds about that either; thus, she has been certain to lay it on thick in the past several months. Amplifying her illness, displaying defeat in her every action until she had become scarcely a shadow in the minds of her captors.

 _Being invisible is certainly a useful superpower,_ Michael considers as she begins her descent of the access ladder.

After all, she _had_ just walked onto a bridge full of Klingons and sent a message to the Federation, in full view of everyone.

Michael withholds her satisfaction until she reaches her tiny room, her cell, and has the door shut behind her. Not _locked,_ obviously, there is no lock function on this particular door, behind which the Traitor resides. Nevertheless, this is the one place aboard this Klingon science vessel where Michael can be alone, the only place her captors have never followed her.

Once in her cell, Michael allows herself to fully consider her actions of the past eighteen minutes and thirty-six seconds.

The message she had sent will not be going to the Federation itself, obviously. The codes for such a message would have sent out an alert of biblical proportions. Anyone in Starfleet, as well, would have been far too conspicuous. Thus, Michael had chosen a more subtle option.

Amanda Grayson will receive the message within the hour, Michael knows. The distance between Klingon territory and Vulcan is vast, and comms on this ship are weak; nevertheless, Michael has spent a great deal of time observing the communications console on the bridge, and she knows that such a thing is possible.

Amanda will pass the message to Sarek.

Sarek will pass the message to Captain Georgiou.

And Captain Georgiou will pass the message to Starfleet.

Michael’s lips twitch and tremble into a small smile. She allows satisfaction to pervade her mind, warming her heart ever so slightly. It is not quite _joy_ , but it is a close enough substitute. Joy would be too much right now, considering her message will likely result in the beating of a lifetime once her captors discover it.

And they _will_ discover it, both the message and its contents. Klingon codebreaking technology has far outstripped that of the Federation; thus, Michael had not bothered with encryptions, including only that which could not possibly be altered at this late stage, and nothing more. She feels a mild twinge of regret that she had not be able to alert the Federation concerning her own secret plan, her _redemption…_

But they would find out soon enough.

 

_I am in the rabbit hole now._

_I have found the answer._

_Trapped for eighty-nine years._

_It is finished._

_Earth._

 

The first line, to verify her identity to Amanda. The second line, to verify her identity to Sarek. The third line, to verify her identity to Captain Georgiou. The fourth line, referring to the wormhole device. The last line, the only information she could include that her captors could not possibly change upon discovering her message.

The location of where T’Kuvma’s fleet will be moved.

 

Michael breathes long and low. She blinks at the stars outside of her tiny window, and considers today.

The wormhole device is scheduled to fire in thirteen hours. However, this time will no doubt be moved up once her captors discover the message she has sent. The actual timing of the message had been critical, and Michael had spent a very long time weighing the pros and cons in her mind. Too early, and the Klingons would have time to change their battle plan, thus rendering her information useless. Any later, and there would not be enough time for Starfleet to muster a response.

Thus, she had settled on thirteen hours, and had manipulated and cajoled and delayed the device’s completion so as to fit the schedule of her daily walk-shuffle.

It had been difficult.

 _But ultimately worth it_.

This is it. The day of reckoning. The last day of the war.

And the last day of Michael Burnham’s life.

 

 

 _Twelve months, eleven days_.

 

 

All four walls are covered with scratch marks, and Michael regards them with impassivity. They’ve become as familiar to her as the lines on the back of her hand, as the birthmarks she bears on her left elbow and her lower back, as the scars she now carries on her left cheekbone and the middle-right quadrant of her abdomen.

She looks down at the small pallet that has served as her bed. It hasn’t been much at all, but it is the softest surface she has known during the past year. The blankets as well, have been soft and durable, truly a surprise to be found in the company of Klingons. They are cast-offs, she knows this, she has overheard her captors say as much, but they are _hers,_ and they have been for the entirety of her time here.

 _Hers,_ like this tiny room, with four even walls and miniscule opening in the far right corner that serves as a viewport to the cosmos.

It isn’t much, it isn’t even _technically_ hers…but it is all she has known for so long. It is all she has. And…

…she will miss it.

_Humans say that familiarity breeds contempt…but I now know that to be false._

Michael’s knees twinge when she slowly lowers herself down to her bedside, and they ache where they meet the floor. She rummages under her blankets to the point where the pallet meets the wall, and carefully pulls out two thin bundles of fabric, rolled up tightly.

The gold paneling shines, even in the incredibly low light.

With infinite tenderness, Michael unrolls her Starfleet jacket and matching uniform pants. She runs fingertips over the stylistically uneven collar, down the gold-tinted front zipper. The vibrant blue still comes through strong, even after an entire year, and the unfamiliar splash of color makes her pupils spasm, her eyes water.

The tank top she came in with has long since fallen apart, but she made certain that these articles would withstand the test of time.

Her uniform jacket was once nearly skin-tight on her upper body. Now it hangs from her frame. The pants, as well, are loose. Michael pulls the tie from the waistband of her Klingon trousers, and with a few quick cuts of her makeshift knife to the hip section of the Starfleet pants, she has functional belt loops through which to pass it.

She has not seen a mirror since she arrived on this ship, but a reflective piece of silver from a scrap heap on the science deck serves the purpose nearly as well.

Michael regards her reflection with more resolve than she has felt in a good long while.

The Starfleet uniform no longer fits her, _which,_ she considers, _is fitting in its own way_. The lack of sun has made her skin pale, and the lack of nutrition has rendered her features gaunt, cheekbones jutting. Her coily hair is long, longer than it has ever been in her life, passing her shoulders in its uncontrolled growth.

 _My mother wore her hair like this…_ Michael realizes dimly, and she feels vague recollection wash over her of Tiana Burnham, her kind face, broad smile, strong arms that would lift Michael onto her shoulders, where she would sink chubby fingers into curls so abundant that she had no hope of ever holding them all at once.

She blinks at the memory, and runs a curious hand over her own hair, patting it this way and that.

Keeping her hair like this would have made her dreadfully self-conscious back in Starfleet, back on Vulcan, but right now, in this prison cell aboard an enemy ship, on what will likely be the last day of her life, Michael Burnham finds that she likes it.

Appreciates it.

Clothed in the uniform of Starfleet, the organization that had become her home …wearing her hair in this way to commemorate her birth family…now if only she had something of Vulcan…

 _But,_ she concedes, _that in itself would be a sentimentality that the culture would never abide._

Her lips quirk at the paradox. Having nothing of Vulcan is truly a fitting way to honor her Vulcan background.

Rituals concerning the dead are a unifying aspect of being alive, Michael knows this as a xenoanthropologist. She understands the deeply psychological urge to put meaning to her own ending, to quantify her life in the way she lived it…to ritualize her final hours so as to quiet her mind, which may start to scream in protest if given the chance.

She is also fully aware that her circumstances of being a helpless prisoner means that she holds fast to the miniscule number of things that she has under her control, appearance being one of them.

None of this truly matters in the end. The psychology behind her sentimental actions belongs in classrooms and laboratories. This is reality, and Michael will do what she can to make the final hours of her life as good as they might be, here on this Klingon starship.

_Of course…my ending will be mine alone._

This thought gives Michael quiet satisfaction as she roots around in her blankets, searching for one last item.

Her fate had become clear to her quite a long time ago, during the extensive time she now spends in meditation. It had taken her little effort to realize that if she committed fully to this course of action, to this plan that will lead to her redemption, she will likely not survive to see the end result.

But she will be damned if she gives her Klingon captors the pleasure of killing her themselves.

Michael’s fingertips trace over the funny little metal device that she has built over the past several months, hidden safely here in her cell. Not the wormhole device, no, this particular creation of hers is quite a bit smaller, far more primitive, and has one singular purpose.

 

Death.

 

She wonders if now would be a good time to use it, to avoid the painful beating at her captor’s hands.

The thought is slightly tempting, but Michael discards it within moments. If anything goes wrong with the firing of the wormhole device, Michael wants to be there to troubleshoot. Nothing can go wrong today, nothing _._

_I can manage a little more pain._

The jacket is now loose where once it was tight, _which is actually a fairly good thing at the moment_ , she realizes as she tucks the device beneath it. She takes one more look at her reflection, from curly hair to black Fleet-issue boots that, to her amazement, had stood up to a full year of steady use.

Now what was that Human phrase… _to die with one’s boots on?_

_How utterly fitting._

She sits on the floor painfully, folding her legs into half-lotus. A light state of meditation is easy to achieve after so many months of doing so, and in this meditative state, Michael Burnham allows herself to think.

She has evaded death twice in her life, once on Doctari Alpha, once at the Vulcan Learning Center. Three times, if one were to count her stabbing aboard T’Kuvma’s flagship. And as a result of these narrow, incredibly unlikely survivals, she has always harbored a strange intuition that there was a certain value placed on her life. An auspiciousness, one might say.

_Surely I was meant for something greater, if the universe would see fit to save my life so many times._

These are superstitious thoughts, but after unlocking the mysteries of space and time, after accessing the fourth dimension from her three dimensional constraints, after witnessing the birth and death of the universe first-hand… _at her own hands_ …

Michael cannot help but entertain the possibility that superstition is merely a science that humanoids do not yet possess the tools to understand.

It is tricky to not wheeze with the action of breathing, but Michael finds that concentrating on this task helps her to remain calm and collected. As she breathes, her mind wanders to her friends, her family, the people who have shaped her, made her life possible, made her strong with their presence.

_Michael and Tiana Burnham…Mom and Dad…_

_Sarek and Amanda…_

_Philippa Georgiou, of course…_

Thoughts of her former captain are dangerous, so Michael treads lightly. She needs to remain calm and collected, serene and logical for her final hours of life, and to think of the woman that she once…

_-No-_

…to think of _her_ , could bring the entirety of her emotions crashing down in a flood. And then she would _really_ be in trouble.

Nevertheless, she wonders if her captain might be proud her for sending the message, for surviving for over a year in the company of Klingons, for playing the long game …

A minor pang of regret strikes her now, and Michael twitches slightly. She does not have many affairs to set in order before her death; however, the one thing she does wish that she could do, more than anything, would be to apologize to Philippa for the mutiny…for attacking and betraying her. She had justified her actions, back in the captain’s ready room before they had attempted to capture T’Kuvma…but she had never, not once, _apologized_.

She had hurt her captain deeply, Michael understands this now. Philippa Georgiou is warm and friendly and wickedly humorous, but for all of these qualities, the woman is remarkably slow to trust. Michael had taken advantage of her emotions that day, playing at being devastated, _crying_ even, to draw Philippa close enough to use the Vulcan subduing technique. It was a cruel thing to do, though the former first officer had considered it worth it at the time. Forgiveness may not be possible, and Michael would understand.

But an apology would certainly be a start.

From somewhere in the distance, Michael hears shouting and the approaching thuds of Klingon footsteps.

 _S_ _o they’ve discovered my message, then._

Once more, her thoughts flicker to the metal device, now stashed at the small of her back.

_No. Not yet._

She clings to this thought as the grunting and shouting grow louder. Surak’s teachings flow through her brain, and she considers them with as much impassivity as she can manage.

_Pain is an illusion…a trick of the body…._

The shouts are right outside now, howling for blood.

_Fuck it._

Her door bursts open, and Michael dives into the depths of her mind.

 

 

 

 

 ****

 

 

_One month, twenty-eight days before the Battle at the Binary Stars_

 

“She had this pair of yellow pants…” Michael begins. It is not much of a rational explanation, she knows this, but it is what she remembers well of her mother.

“They were so bright… they made her skin shine, her face glow, at least I thought…” She shrugs now, as if to excuse her child self’s irrationality. “Doctari Alpha didn’t have much in the way of natural sunlight, so my father used to tell me that my mother in her yellow pants…that was all he needed of sunshine.”

The monolith looms before Michael. She has been to it before of course, with Amanda Grayson as a child, but only once or twice since then, having been schooled by Sarek to not indulge in such illogical whims as sentimentality.

That is not to say that she had not wanted to visit more. Michael had considered the idea from time to time, but shore-leaves and schedules just never seemed to match up appropriately.

Until now.

Philippa stands somewhere behind her. Michael appreciates the older woman’s steady presence, and appreciates further the fact that Philippa had offered. She would have not asked such a thing of her captain, her mentor, her friend…but the extended offer had meant that Michael did not have to.

Her captain was thoughtful like that.

Just one of her many qualities that Michael finds so devastatingly attractive.

“My father, he was…stern. Very stern. He wanted me to be tough, be strong…told me to never cry, to hold my fists in front of me like this…” Michael holds her arms up now in a thoroughly Human fighting stance. Philippa smiles in amusement at the demonstration. “But my mother was soft and warm…the only thing that could melt my father’s coldness.”

Michael’s lips quirk. Her birth family’s dynamic mirrored that of her foster family in many ways, something that she had observed and appreciated, even as a child.

“He used to say that mother’s smile was brighter than a yellow star, and twice as radiant…and I would have to agree.”

“You take after her, then,” Philippa suggests quietly from beside Michael.

Michael allows the comment to impact her at a place where logic ends and emotion begins.

Of course, at this point she is well aware of her captain’s fondness for her smile. It would take a truly vast amount of willful blindness to remain ignorant of the woman’s appreciation for the expression, though the source of the appreciation Michael remains somewhat…wary of.

_Hope is a distractor…it sways my thoughts, directs my logical processes down a path that may be…entirely illogical._

But hope is something that her captain relies heavily on, Michael knows this. Thus it follows that such an emotion must be valid in its own way.

“They named me “Michael” after my father. It was a fad, back in those days, to name female children male names and vice versa…my best friend Isabel was a boy…”

The memory of her friend’s toothy smile returns to her now…Isa had lost his baby teeth early, at age six, and his adult teeth had never quite seemed to fit his face. Michael had always wondered what he might have looked like, if given the time to grow into his own teeth.

She absently moves one meter to her right to trace the name on the monolith.

_Isabel Werner_

And the names below it, _Jala Werner, Krishna Werner._

She remembers Jala’s white-blond hair, Krishna’s chubby midsection that once she had ricocheted off of in her haste to collect Isa from his family’s quarters so they could race starships together by the massive windows facing Beta Volanis.

The star’s historic supernova had seemingly taken everyone Michael had ever known with it. The bleeding, gaping wound left by the loss has long since closed over, but she still runs fingers over the scar tissue from time to time, indulging in memories and emotions useless to her now, but present nonetheless.

Philippa is next to her now, taking in the words that her fingers had just traced.

“Your friend?”

“My friend.” Michael nods, her voice lowered to a soft murmur.

The captain’s eyes flicker towards the left side of the monument, where Michael and Tiana Burnham’s names are etched into the stone. Their names glow slightly from the inset iradium particles, as do the names of all of the others killed in the attack.

The yellow brightness of the inscriptions reminds Michael of the supernova that she had watched alone, three days after the Klingon raiders had destroyed Doctari Alpha in a senseless act of violence.

_Forged by blood and by fire, the stars themselves collapsing in their grief._

A verse Michael had ascribed to herself often during her upbringing on Vulcan, particularly in times when circumstances had demanded more of her than she felt she was able to give. But give she always had, again and again, so that she might be worthy of the gift of life she had been granted, all those years ago.

Spared in the attack that had killed everyone else.

Worthiness had always been a difficult concept for Michael Burnham.

And yet…

She looks at the woman next to her. Philippa’s pale skin reflects the soft glow of the memorial, her dark eyes roving over the words inscribed in the metal.

This metal was harvested from the supernova itself, gathered by trawlers skimming the star’s remnants until enough particles were collected to form a slab, approximately two meters high, two meters long.

“My mother would have been able to tell you every last detail of this slab…she was a solar geologist by education...” Michael smiles softly, “And an astrophysicist when the need arose…”

Michael tilts her head at the memory of her mother correctly predicting the stellar paths of a cluster of meteors, and her own childish pride when Tiana Burnham had taken her into the engine room to watch the engineers change the position of the outpost by a mere four kilometers, enough of a course correction to ensure the station’s survival.

It would be a lie to say that she had not thought of her mother in the days after she had guided the _Shenzhou_ through the Maw.

“She was so _smart..._ I was too young to fully understand it, but I looked her up when I got older. Top of her class at the University of Capetown, her publications met with critical acclaim, her work was _groundbreaking_ …” These are facts, but Michael finds that they are not quite enough to accurately describe the woman she speaks of.

“…I wish I could have talked to her about it.”

The name in the slab, _Tiana Burnham_ , glows yellow like her mother’s bright yellow pants.

“They would be very proud of you, Michael.”

Philippa’s voice is soft and gentle.

Michael smiles at the statement, because her captain says this like Michael does not know it, but the truth is, she _does._

She does know it.

Seven years in Starfleet, fourteen years on Vulcan, all of her achievements, scientific and otherwise, all of her adventures, her wins, her losses, her trials, her tribulations, her victories…all of it amounts to a life well lived.

Of course her birth parents would be proud.

Michael thinks further on this as she takes in the names carved into the stone slab.

_Seven years in Starfleet..._

A mere blink of an eye on the galactic scale, but such a long time for one Michael Burnham.

Michael looks at the woman next to her once more, her delicate features glowing in the low light of the monument, soft curls cascading over one of her shoulders.

_Seven years of learning to love…_

Although she has to admit, she is still very much the student concerning that particular study.

“I am glad you are finally making good on our bargain,” Philippa murmurs, still gazing up at the glowing monolith.

Michael gives her a confused look.

“Three years ago…” Philippa prods, raising her eyebrows in Michael’s direction. “The Phoebus Nebula?”

Nodding slowly in recollection, Michael feels warmth rise in her chest as the memory of that early morning discussion returns to her consciousness.

_That was the first time I hugged her._

“You know I’m not sharing this information because of a bargain, Captain,” Michael cannot help but protest.

“Of course I know, Michael, I was only teasing.”

Philippa’s wry smile crosses her lips now, and it takes every ounce of Michael’s Vulcan discipline to not sigh audibly at it.

The captain’s gaze moves back towards the monument, and her eyes dart across the many glowing names.

“Do you ever think about where you might be now, had they lived?”

Philippa asks this question softly, gingerly, as if worried she might cause offense.

There is none taken, naturally.

Michael nods. “Of course I do.”

“And?” Philippa turns to her now, an expectant look on her face.

Certainty weighs heavy in Michael’s chest, because the answer is so clear, so obvious, so _right,_ it had all but knocked her flat when she finally arrived at it nearly three years ago as she held her captain’s shaking body in her arms after the loss of her mother.

“I would be here.”

She feels, rather than sees, her captain’s confusion.

“I would have followed in my mother’s footsteps. Science,” Michael clarifies, “Though I am not certain as to what kind. I studied quantum physics because of my foster family’s advice, and xenoanthropology because of my upbringing on Vulcan. But,” she shrugs, “I know that I would have become a scientist nonetheless. And I like to think that I inherited my father’s curiosity…”

“Oh?” Philippa perks up at that.

“He was a surveyor before he met my mother. He loved the stars, loved space, loved stellar travel…” Michael sighs, remembering her stern father and his tall tales of mapping Wild Space, “Until he met my mother and settled down a little.”

Michael shakes her head, unable to stop the smile from crossing her lips. “I think I would have split the difference between them. A solar geologist and a surveyor.”

_Tiana and Michael Burnham…_

“Science and the stars…”

She raises an eyebrow at her captain, whose eyes widen as the realization hits.

“You would have joined Starfleet.”

“Yes.”

Philippa looks just as stunned as Michael had been after arriving at this same conclusion.

 

They consider this in silence for several long moments.

 

“Funny how these things work,” Michael finally murmurs. “Where I would be isn’t a question, the real mystery is… _who_ I would be.”

And this particular mystery is one that baffles Michael whenever she considers it.

Who would she be without Vulcan, without Amanda and Sarek, without the scar on her soul from the loss of her birth parents? Who would she be without the constant need to prove herself, without the perpetual sting of rejection from both of her cultures, without her Vulcan logic, but with her very much Human heart?

_Would I still be Michael Burnham?_

Michael looks sideways now at Philippa Georgiou, at that beautiful, familiar face that had started out like any other, but slowly, slowly, became _everything_.

_Would I still be the person who loves you?_

Philippa’s lips twist slightly, in the way that they tend to when she is mulling something over.

Finally, she speaks up. “For what it’s worth, Michael…”

She looks down for a moment in a way that, if Michael did not know better, she would say was uncertainty.

“I very much like the person you are now.”

The words take Michael right in the heart, just as Philippa had, thoroughly and entirely. Once more, all of Michael’s logic is cast aside, tossed asunder as if it had never existed at all, rendering her Human once more, strong and weak, trembling in fear yet powerful beyond belief.

How a feeling could tear her down and build her anew is well beyond Michael’s scientific abilities. How in the hell a mere  _feeling_ could produce such a devastating effect is entirely out of her reach, much like the unknowable force of gravity, like four-dimensional mathematics.

Time and space.

Love and logic.

Michael shakes her head at the utter paradoxes.

Yet despite the chaos churning in her mind, in her heart, the answer to Philippa's astonishing statement springs to Michael’s lips as easily as if she had known it for years, as if it hadn't been the fight of a literal lifetime to achieve it.

“So do I, Captain.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This became more of a Burnham character study than anything else. I just really like her, okay? Canon is going to blow so many holes in this backstory I created, this chapter is gonna age like milk, but hey, I had fun writing it.
> 
> Now I kinda want to write a Human!Burnham AU where her parents lived and she joins Starfleet and she and Georgiou fall in love. Ah hell.


	11. The Mutineer

 

_One month, twenty-three days before the Battle at the Binary Stars_

Philippa Georgiou really should have seen this coming.

Honestly, at the age of fifty-four she ought to know her own feelings better than this.

 _Michael would call it Misattribution of Arousal,_ she considers sardonically. Every single occasion that she recalls her heart fluttering, her face flushing, her smile becoming uncontrollable, she’d been able to pass off as some other emotion altogether.

Philippa shakes her head, considering the starry void from the privacy of her ready room. Her spine is ramrod straight, but her fists tremble at her sides.

An attraction was one thing.

Michael Burnham is… _Michael Burnham,_ for Gods’ sake. Philippa would have to be blind, deaf, and comatose to not notice her commander’s beauty, her wit, her intelligence.

But this?

This is utterly, completely, _hilariously_ beyond anything she had ever expected.

_How in the hell did I let this happen?_

It is somewhat humiliating. Captain Georgiou has always prided herself on maintaining a clear head and a clean heart while on duty. She has never once had a dalliance or affair with a fellow shipmate, a record that has stood since her first posting, and has made her into something of a source of advice for those undergoing temptation. Philippa’s friends and fellow captains have asked her many times over the years how to avoid developing feelings for fellow officers.

To subordinates, she would reply, “ _Discipline and focus._ ”

To contemporaries, she would reply, “ _Just don’t fucking do it._ ”

Michael Burnham was…well, she was something else. Not quite Human, not quite Vulcan, the only one of her kind in the entire universe. Clever, resourceful, completely unpredictable; it was not often a trained and experienced diplomat such as herself could be caught off-guard, but Michael managed it without even trying.

Philippa buries her face in her hands.

_I am too damn old for this._

*

 

Michael is starting to worry, Philippa can tell. Her commander is not as unreadable now as she was when she first came aboard. She feels Michael’s wondering gaze on her when they share shifts on the bridge, and senses her bewildered hurt when standing invitations for sparring and astronomy lessons get turned down.

It has been nearly two weeks of Philippa attempting to pull back, trying for an ounce of professionalism. The banter they’d once openly shared while on duty seems to her now an incredibly obvious admission of guilt; how she had not seen it before must have been yet another symptom of the denial she had wallowed in for so long.

God help her, she feels like every cliché that her friends from her academy days had warned her about when she told them of her decision to pursue a command track.

 _This is so damn wrong!_ Philippa’s mind echoes the words with each strike to the holographic opponents. The entire crew has no doubt noticed her frustration by now, so difficult it has been to contain.

Each and every interaction they have ever had now plays in Philippa’s mind like a holo on repeat. Each time Philippa smiled helplessly at something Michael said or did, each time Michael did something that stunned her speechless, each time Philippa had _gone out of her way to do the same to Michael-_

_How did I miss this for so long?_

Philippa Georgiou has patience in spades, but her ire, when triggered is legendary.

 _She is so young._ With a quick punch, a grunting opponent collapses into shards of light.

Philippa knows that it is more than a little bit culturally insensitive to infantilize Michael due to her Vulcan upbringing and unfamiliarity with her own Human nature, but truth be told, this has never been much of an issue. If anything, Michael often acts older than her age, never engaging in the frivolity and immaturity so common in younger officers.

But for God’s sake, twenty-three years between them?

 _She is my first officer._ *palm-strike* A warrior hits the wall and bursts into non-being.

This is more serious than it seems; Philippa has many friends and contemporaries who have been cornered into truly unbearable situations by engaging in a relationship with a direct superior or subordinate. Intimate relationships are far more tenable when the participants are separated by several ranks; in this way, the chain of command is a far more distant aspect of the relationship. Sharing a rank as well, makes for a far simpler situation if one really must get involved with a crewmate.

And captains absolutely, _absolutely_ do not get involved with crewmates.

 _She is my protégée._ An arcing crescent kick drives a knife-wielding hologram into the deck, where it explodes into beams of holo-chips.

To be fair, Philippa has had many protégées in her time as a Starfleet officer. She is a gifted teacher, a longstanding officer, and is well aware that her heritage and life experiences make her more than a little inspiring. And if she is being completely honest, the mentor-mentee aspect of her relationship with Michael has faded into the background, a thing of the past. Michael Burnham is well on her way to captaincy, and Philippa has very little left to teach her.

But she cannot ignore the foundations.

She cannot ignore any of this.

In a fit of savage fury, Philippa Georgiou takes out three holographic Human warriors in point eight five seconds, a speed that she has not managed in years.

“Computer…” Philippa pants, chest heaving, sweat dripping down her face. “Run simulation again. Maximum strength.”

The captain sleeps fitfully that night, waking with a jolt at 0430 hours with a hand between her legs and Michael’s name on her lips. She feels even more foolish now, because it is not even the first time this has happened.

It occurs to her that she might have to update her will.

 

*

 

Philippa is unsure how to rationalize this away. As weeks slip by, she feels that perhaps this is her punishment for something.

 _An impossible_ …her brain ricochets through terms at warp speed until she finds the one that is least damaging (and least accurate) … _crush?_ _At fifty-four?_

It is not so old in these modern times, barely middle-aged with the advances in longevity. Nevertheless, she is within a few years of retirement and had planned on doing so without any sort of dramatics.

This counts as dramatics.

Even more so when Philippa steals glances at Michael Burnham hard at work at her console, and the very sight makes her shake. Or when she goes entire shifts without looking at her at all, but her heart trembles in her chest all the same.

Philippa Georgiou feels completely, utterly _ridiculous._ Every time the sight of Michael in the corridors brings a flush to her face, every time she has to look at the woman’s hopeful smile and school her heart to slow the hell down, every time she hears that mellow voice from somewhere just out of her vision and her stomach does a backflip…

This loss of control is a strange feeling for a highly experienced and decorated Starfleet captain, so used to being utterly in command of herself and her surroundings.

And it is terrifying.

*

After well over one month of avoiding her Number One, Philippa is at the end of her rope. She goes to bed, she wakes up, she directs the ship towards new planets and civilizations, towards anomalies and stellar phenomena that no being has ever seen before, but there is no longer excitement in any of it.

No more looking at Michael Burnham out of the corner of her eye to witness her joyful reactions to scientific quandaries and the prospect of learning about new alien cultures.

No more sharing meals with the younger woman and listening to her talk about xenoanthropology, about growing up Vulcan, about damn near anything as long as it puts her within range of Michael Burnham’s voice and her smile.

Definitely no more sparring in the gym or the holodeck, _that_ was just far too much of a risk. All of the skin-to-skin contact, the elevated heart rates, the panting and elated _grinning-_

_Misattribution of Arousal indeed._

The idea that these feelings are one-sided is laughable at this point. Philippa Georgiou is neither blind, nor inexperienced. She understands what reciprocity looks like, and if she herself had to be dragged kicking and screaming into this particular realization, there is no doubt in her mind that Michael feels at least some small part of it as well.

But that only makes all of this harder _._

She is doing what she must, but despite this right intention, Philippa Georgiou _misses_ Michael. She misses her good friend of many years, who is brilliant, clever, self-assured, attractive on a bad day-

_Stop it now, Pippa._

It isn’t like she can completely avoid the woman; they do work together every day after all, but Michael has long since sensed Philippa’s coldness, her attitude, her clipped sentences and low tolerance for workplace banter, and no longer tries for any type of warm interactions with her.

The hurt she sees in Michael’s eyes is a knife to the heart, but the captain honestly does not know what else she can do.

She avoids going on away-missions alone with her Number One as best she can, which is difficult. As a team, they are well-balanced; Michael Burnham’s logic and scientific skillset is an excellent counter to Philippa Georgiou’s talent for diplomacy and brilliant, often reckless creativity. Their success rate is unparalleled, and Philippa misses the feelings of pride and accomplishment that she once shared with her commander.

Late at night, after training herself to exhaustion and completing all of her dreaded paperwork well in advance, Philippa wonders…

_Why am I doing this?_

The notion had started out well enough, but it has been nearly six weeks since the night of her birthday, and she is dead on her feet, metaphorically speaking.

_Why am I fighting this so hard?_

 

*

 

Hidden behind the corner of the corridor, Philippa watches Michael watch the stars.

It is gamma shift, and neither of them should be out and about right now. But sleep has been difficult to come by lately, so the captain has taken to wandering.

Philippa really needs to get ahold of herself, she knows this. A tired captain is a poor captain, and the _Shenzhou_ needs its captain at her best, particularly since the ship’s first officer seems equally out of sorts.

The ship is passing a distant red giant, and the fiery starlight is setting Michael’s dark skin aglow. The sight would make Philippa sigh, were she not entirely committed to remaining unseen at the moment.

_How in the hell did I miss this for so long?_

Whole weeks spent agonizing and losing sleep over this one singular question, and yet…

It is 0300 hours, and Philippa’s emotionally driven subconscious is nearer to the surface of her brain than it usually is. Barriers are lowered, walls are weakened, and she simply does not have the strength to fight against her heart as she has been doing every day for the past month and a half.

As Philippa looks at Michael Burnham now, bathed in the light of the cosmos, the unparalleled beauty of the void, the answer to her question is quite obvious.

_I missed it for so long because…I never wanted to see it._

_Seeing it would make it real._

And if it were real, then Philippa would have had to deal with it, as Starfleet captains must. Put an end to this relationship, suppress the feelings, these wonderful, incredible feelings that have brought her nothing but happiness over the past several years.

Perhaps, after so many years in command, so many years at the top, some small, secret part of her heart had decided that a little happiness couldn’t hurt.

Philippa shakes her head, because it truly has been a long time since she has felt anything like this for anyone.

_I suppose I could do worse than a brilliant, talented, beautiful young woman._

And in the next second, the captain straightens where she stands, because she could swear she saw a _tear_ trailing down Michael’s cheek.

No. That just would not do.

 

*

 

“I have read your proposal concerning the accident at the meteor drilling facility,” Philippa begins, her tone clipped and professional, though her feelings most certainly are not.

Michael stands in front of the ready-room desk, hands clasped behind her back, chin held high and face in Vulcan-like stillness.

This, of course, means that she is nervous.

_Understandable, considering this is one of few one-on-one conversations we have had in long while._

“I approve your request to offer aid to the natives; the duty of Starfleet seems intensely straightforward in this situation.”

Michael nods slowly, confusion obvious.

“Thank you, Captain. However…” Michael seems to hesitate, and Philippa sees her question coming a mile away. “I cannot help but wonder why you felt the need to tell me this personally.”

Philippa winces. It is entirely what she deserves after the way she has been treating her friend, her Number One, but that does not mean that it doesn’t hurt. She stands up now and walks around her desk to perch on top of it, the way she does to indicate informality.

“I did so because…I meant to ask if I might accompany you.”

The response throws Michael off, which had been Philippa’s intention from the start. Digital requests can be mulled over, pros and cons weighed and responses carefully planned out. A face-to-face request such as this leaves no time for such logical considerations, and Philippa is hoping that this will force Michael into an emotional decision.

She is gratified to see hope winking in Michael’s expression like a shooting star before her Vulcan mask falls over her features once more.

“Of course, Captain,” she finally states, her dark eyes swimming with confusion. “But…may I ask why?”

The true answer to this question is long, convoluted, highly unprofessional, and makes Philippa want to blush, which she swore a long time ago to never do while on duty, so she settles for the short answer.

“I miss my friend.”

  

*

 

Her decision is made.

The matter is finally settled. Philippa Georgiou will absolutely not be starting any relationship with her first officer and protégée, outside of the deep friendship they already have.

The captain nods to herself as she wraps the thin lengths of linen around the sleeves of the long-sleeved shirt covering her forearms.

It cannot happen. At least, not now.

Michael Burnham needs to move up. She needs to become a captain, Philippa wants this for her with every fiber of her being and she will not do anything to deter it.

She can risk her heart later, she decides, once Michael has a command of her own. Once they are on separate ships, separate command structures, with no chance of blowing a hole through the center of the _Shenzhou_ ’s leadership team should a relationship not work out.

Philippa can certainly make do with what they have now. She has for seven years after all, and never wanted for more, at least not until the night of her birthday.

She can wait, be professional, make amends for the past several weeks, and enjoy what she has at the present moment.

After all…there is plenty of time.

Philippa tucks her long hair into a knot at the nape of her neck and secures the scarf that will serve as head covering. She straps the goggles over it before checking the entire ensemble for any points of weakness. The desert is unforgiving and sand tends to get into every aperture and opening it finds; the captain knows this from brutal past away-missions.

She wonders absently if Michael has experienced much of Vulcan’s desert climate first-hand, but quickly banishes the thought.

 _Professional,_ Philippa chides. _No more of these speculations, you’re a Starfleet captain, act like it._

Philippa Georgiou’s staunch professionalism lasts until she reaches the transporter room and sees Commander Michael Burnham in her desert-gear.

_Oh…_

Roughspun robes and gauzy tan muslin that absolutely do _not_ flatter the commander’s dark complexion.

_Oh no…_

Michael smiles at her.

And Philippa forgets everything.

 

 

 

****

 

 

 

“Admirals…I know that this sounds crazy…”

“Crazy would be putting it mildly, Captain.” The hologram of Mark Kepler snaps. “What you are saying makes me concerned for your sanity.”

“Michael Burnham is dead, Captain Georgiou.” Terral’s Vulcan inflection is smooth and measured. “You discovered her body yourself.”

Philippa’s lip twists, and in her mind she swears an absolute blue streak. She wishes fervently at this moment that Tyler had not stopped her from vaporizing the false corpse they had found aboard the Klingon science vessel.

“A fake, and not even a particularly good one, Admiral Terral. It was vengeance-“

“-for his Number One, you’ve mentioned this, Captain.” Katrina Cornwell’s voice is soft and soothing, like she’s comforting a wounded animal lashing out in a corner. “But are you certain you are not merely…projecting?”

Philippa gives her look of blatant disbelief.

“I know her betrayal was hard on you, her death even more so…”

“Do you think _this_ has been any easier, Kat?” Philippa demands. “Knowing that she lives in the belly of the enemy, tortured, sick, and close to death? Do you think a… _projection…_ such as this, would give me any type of peace, because it does _not_ -“

Cornwell’s eyes are soft and filled with compassion, but Philippa is quickly distracted by Kepler’s interruption.

“If she does live, as you say she does, why in the hell did you wait so long to tell us?” he demands.

Philippa sighs in frustration, and her clipped accent becomes slightly more pronounced with the emotion. “I seem to recall the lot of you blaming her for what happened at the binary stars. If _this_ is how you respond to our plan, thirteen months after the fact, how would you have responded back when her betrayal was fresh?”

The admirals are silent for a moment, their holographic forms falling still. Kepler looks like he’s just bitten into something rotten, Terral is his usual impassive self, and Cornwell looks to be mulling something over.

Philippa feels a spike of frustration coupled with a vague sense of loss, because convincing the admirals would have been damn near easy twelve months ago. Back when she followed rules and bowed to regulations, back before the war, before the spore drive came online, before it had become impossible for her to reconcile the orders of a distant command center with the realities of fighting a brutal Klingon warmonger with devastating strategies and deadly technology.

Philippa Georgiou is not particularly proud of her actions of the past several months, the way she currently sidesteps regulation, ignores protocol, jumps through every possible loophole of the rigid orders she is given.

But she sees no other way to fight this ever-escalating war.

“So you expect us to believe this, then?” Kepler finally states. “Thirteen months after the fact? You expect us to just…pull all of our ships from the front? Our forces are stretched beyond belief, Philippa, scattered across the very fringes of the quadrants, where the Klingons are making their stand. There are no ships within thousands of AUs of the core, your information makes no tactical sense-“

Philippa’s heart skips a beat as clarity washes over her.

The clarity quickly turns to fear.

“But it does…” she breathes. Kepler raises an eyebrow in confusion.

“Do you not see?” Philippa demands. “The shift in the war in these past several months, it was a ruse, meant to draw our forces away from the core and into deep space! They meant for us to leave Earth unprotected so they could use their device with the greatest effect!”

The realization is knocking her flat, and the blood drains from her face at the sheer, simple _brilliance_ of Lord T’Kuvma’s tactics. Philippa turns slowly to look at the admirals, eyes still wide with horror, and some naïve, irrational part of her brain feels that her thunderstruck certainty at what is about to happen will surely be powerful enough to convince the war council.

But the rational, command section of her brain knows better, and is proven right. Kepler is staring at her like she’s insane, Virak’s eyebrow raises, and Cornwell, for the first time during this meeting, looks genuinely uncomfortable.

“Listen, there is still enough time,” Philippa insists, her voice only a hair shy of desperate. She thinks quickly, focusing not on the distant warfront, but the far closer supply lines, waystations, warp pathways guarded by Fleet vessels and militia cruisers. “If certain ships jump to warp now they could reach the core within three hours, we still have a chance—“

“Captain…“ Terral tries.

Philippa whirls towards him, dark eyes flashing. “Billions of lives will be lost if we do not act now—“

“Captain!” Terral’s second attempt cuts her off. “This “wormhole device” of which you speak, surely you must know what it sounds like.”

“ _Crazy_?” Philippa snaps.

“I was going to say “misinformation,”” Terral corrects. “A rumor, one we have all heard at one time or the other in the past year. It is not possible, the laws of physics forbid such a machine from existing.”

“The laws of physics…” the captain scoffs, shaking her head. “That did not stop Commander Burnham from plotting a course through the Maw, why should it stop her now?”

“Yes yes, we all know of the Little Ensign Who Could, Philippa, spare us the recitation, please.” Kepler’s annoyance is obvious.

“All of the information that Burnham has fed me over the past year has been true. Every bit of it. You wanted to know how my tactics and strategies always work?” Philippa waves her arm in a choppy motion. “Here it is, I am telling you…I am _showing you_ , for God’s sake!”

Her jaw works as she gestures towards the projected holo-image of Michael Burnham’s carefully formatted words. “You have all seen the message! It contains three levels of identity verification, there is no one else who could have sent it--”

“The message was received by a civilian, Captain, _two_ civilians even, we cannot be sure as to their trustworthiness—“

Philippa cuts Kepler off with a dubious laugh. “What, you think Ambassador Sarek of Vulcan is lying to us?” She shoots a pointed look at Admiral Terral, who says nothing.

“There are too many factors at play here, too many levels of separation.” Kepler continues. “How can we know that this is isn’t some sort of elaborate trap?”

“Three levels of identity verification?” Philippa suggests impatiently. “Corresponding to the three people closest to Michael Burnham?”

“The Klingons have ways of psychological manipulation, you know this, Philippa.” Cornwell’s voice is soothing, but her suggestion is not. “They torture and brainwash their captives, and after over a year at their hands—“

“No.” The captain denies flatly.

“Philippa…” Cornwell sighs.

“Absolutely not. Not Burnham.”

“You can’t know that—“

Philippa whirls on Cornwell now, ire flashing in her dark eyes. “Seven years she served under me, you think I don’t know her?!”

 

The demand hangs somewhere in the air between the captain and the three admirals. Terral raises one pointed eyebrow.

With a jolt, Philippa remembers the mutiny.

She realizes that she has most likely lost the argument.

“Your _informant_ …” Cornwell finally murmurs, breaking the silence at last. “Even if all of this were true, Philippa, she has built a machine of war for the Klingons.”

“This would make her a defector.” Terral’s voice is smooth, but rage coils behind it.

Philippa clenches her jaw. “The Klingons would have built the machine with or without her, she did what she had to do-“

“You defend your traitorous first officer so thoroughly, Captain Georgiou!” Kepler laughs. “What the hell is going on here?”

“Your strategies of the past months have been nothing short of desperate. Wild, even.” Cornwell states, her eyebrows knitted in concern.

Kepler gives her a dubious once-over. “And now you mean to tell us that it’s all due to some Vulcan-mind meld to a woman long-dead, but somehow…alive? In Klingon custody? There is literally no part of this that makes sense.”

“Mind melds cannot work in such a way, Captain,” Terral adds evenly.

“Look at you…” Cornwell murmurs. Philippa blinks at her gentle tone. “Ignoring protocol…going rogue for so many months….you aren’t yourself, Philippa.”

The captain clenches her jaw. “I am not delusional, Admiral, what is happening now is real, and it will come to pass at any moment.”

Kepler shakes his head only once, but the finality of it plunges like a knife into the desperate hope that she had brought to this holo-meeting. “We cannot pull our ships from the front on information that cannot be substantiated, and definitely not on the word of a mutineer and a defector.”

Philippa’s eyes widen in protest. “Admirals-“

“Stand down, Captain Georgiou.” Kepler barks. “That’s an order _._ ”

Philippa’s mind goes still.

It is not quite a flashback, but the déjà vu is so strong it’s almost disorienting.

_Was this how Michael felt, twelve months and eleven days ago in my ready-room?_

Philippa analyzes her feelings quietly, because this may be the only chance she has to truly understand her commander’s intentions that day.

Commitment. Resolve.

Not even an ounce of hesitation.

“You’re right…” Philippa finally murmurs. “Of course you’re right.”

 

 

 

Eight seconds later, Captain Georgiou is striding from her ready-room and onto the bridge.

“Mr. Saru, inform Lieutenant Stamets to be ready to jump to these coordinates."

Saru’s Kelpien eyes widen at the string of numbers and letters Philippa gives him. “But Captain, that’s…that’s…”

“…Earth.” Joann Owosekun completes, her dark eyes wide with realization. “Why are we going to Earth, Captain?”

Philippa looks at her appraisingly, before turning to Richter. “Open a shipwide channel, Mr. Richter.”

The man nods and fiddles with several switches at his console. Philippa watches until he completes the sequence before straightening her spine and turning to the center of the bridge.

“All Hands, this is the captain.”

Philippa wondered often what she would say, if and when the time came. She had never drafted any words, never written up any form of explanation, thinking that she would manage it on the fly, as she did most of her brilliant tactical moves during her career. Now, with the lives of billions on the line, Philippa needs her crew to stand by her now, more than ever before. There can be no room for doubt with a mission like this.

She opens her mouth, and the words flow like water.

“I am certain many of you have wondered where I get the information that enables us victory, time and time again. Well…I am going to tell you now.”

With that, Joann Owosekun and Keyla Detmer turn from their control panels, swiveling in their seats to face her. Philippa looks over her shoulder to see Bryce’s dark eyes widen, Rhys’s hands drop from his tactical console in astonishment. Even Airiam looks intrigued.

In the captain’s mind, she sees the crew off-duty in the mess hall stop eating to listen. The holodecks go still, the projections deactivating. Those walking the corridors come to halt, those presently asleep in their quarters open their eyes and sit up in bed to take in the words.

The ship itself comes to an anticipatory standstill.

“I have an informant aboard a Klingon vessel. She has been under deep cover for over a year…”

_…twelve months, eleven days…_

“…her courage… her _strength…_ ” Philippa lifts her chin in pride, struck by her former commander’s astonishing force of will even now. “…Are the source of our constant success, our survival through battles and infiltrations, the lives we have saved, the victories we have won.”

“She has just passed along what will likely be her last piece of information-“

-This is the truth, though Philippa does not allow herself to dwell on the precise details.-

“…the Klingons have completed a war machine, a wormhole-creating device that allows them to move their ships instantaneously. They are massing their forces for an attack on Earth, which will then expand outwards to take the entire Alpha Quadrant.”

“The admiralty is skeptical of this information,” Georgiou’s face twists at the memory of the conversation. “However, _I_ am not.”

The bridge crew shows no surprise at the statement; Philippa Georgiou’s disregard for the whims of Starfleet command has become a given at this point of the war.

“I have complete faith in my source.”

Philippa links her arms behind her back, squares her shoulders, and continues.

“The _Discovery_ will jump to Earth to mount a defense…and we _will_ defend it…with _everything_ we have.”

Detmer, Owosekun, and the rest of the bridge crew listen to her speech with clear eyes and set expressions. Captain Georgiou knows her crew trusts her, but this is staggering, heartening proof that they _believe_ in her.

“No other ship in the Fleet…no other ship in the _universe_ would have a chance at this, but _we_ do _._ The _Discovery_ can hold the line, defend the planet and its people until reinforcements can arrive. Come blood, come fire, come hell itself—we will draw the line at Earth.”

Philippa underlines her point with a sharp jab of her finger, and though she has said these particular words before, the inspired faces of her bridge crew clearly indicate that they are no less potent.

“We are all that stands between the United Federation and the Klingons. We are the only hope of the eight billion souls on Earth, and the billions more in the Alpha Quadrant proper. For better or worse, today will be the final battle of this war.”

“I could not ask for a better ship, nor a better crew to stand with me.”

Saru’s squares his narrow shoulders. Detmer’s blue eyes harden. Philippa feels, rather than sees, the rest of the ship straighten in resolve.

She gives one brisk nod.

“All hands to battle stations. Raise shields, arm all weapons.”

She pulls her head away, deactivating the transmission for a brief moment. “Stamets?”

Airiam nods once. “Ready in engineering, waiting your call.”

Philippa turns back to center. “Black alert.”

The lights dim, and the _Discovery_ hums as it prepares all systems for a jump along the mycelium network.

When she woke up this morning, Philippa Georgiou had not anticipated that at some point today she would be leading her crew into a battle that would decide the fate of the Federation, of hundreds of species, of thousands of cultures, of millions and billions of lives.

But then again, she was neither shocked nor surprised when the situation came to pass.

 _I am getting better at war and all of its intricacies,_ the captain supposes. The viewscreen brightens to white, and she feels the slight humming in her ears, the change in air pressure and subtle shift in gravity to indicate inter-dimensional travel.

Her spine straightens, her lips flatten into a line. She will have to be ready for whatever may meet them when they come out of the jump.

“Captain?”

Keyla Detmer’s voice is hesitant, but her blue eyes are clear. She regards Philippa with a querying gaze.

“It’s Commander Burnham, isn’t it?”

Philippa looks at her for a moment, before nodding once.

Detmer’s eyes light up with the realization, and her lips flicker in the barest hint of a smile. With a brisk, determined nod, she turns back to the helm, and Georgiou remembers that Michael and Keyla Detmer had been friends, once.

Finally, the viewscreen dims back to normal quality. The tension in the recycled air drains, and the black-tinted light along the walls returns to yellow-white.

Earth glows far off in the distance on the visual feed, far enough that the _Discovery_ will not alert subspace scanners to their presence. The planet’s blue, green, and swirling grey hue making it appear somewhat like a large marble floating freely in the vacuum of space. Philippa sighs in spite of herself, her head cocking as she takes in the view, because she has not seen home in well over a year. Owosekun and Detmer both stare wistfully at the view before them.

_Made all the more beautiful compared to the nonstop hell of the past year._

“Captain, when do you believe the Klingons will arrive?”

This is Saru, his mellow voice surprisingly calm considering what is about to happen.

“If I had to estimate?” Georgiou shakes her head, because the message had been maddeningly vague. “Within twelve hours, likely sooner.”

_She would have wanted to give us enough time for Starfleet to respond._

But there was no way Michael could have known, trapped as she was, that the Klingons had drawn the majority of Federation forces to the fringes of known space.

And there was no utter way she could have known that the trustworthy and honorable Captain Georgiou, Starfleet legend and longtime favorite of the admiralty, would fail to convince Starfleet command of the truth of her warning.

_How the mighty do fall…_

Philippa cannot help the spike of intense rage at the admiralty’s intransigence, because good _God,_ what it must have cost Michael to send that message…

But these speculations are entirely useless at the moment; thus, the captain shakes herself out of her angst and begins to run her crew through what she lovingly refers to as “busy-work.” Drills and readiness checks, systems audits and equipment logs, none of which are particularly critical, but far preferable than a crew standing anxious and idle on the cusp of a massive space battle.

There is not much to be done concerning the people of Earth, what with Starfleet command’s jurisdiction of the planet; nevertheless, Georgiou instructs her communications officers to send an evacuation notice to the various space installations and settlements dotting the Sol system. With any luck, the captain’s reputation will precede her, and the stellar colonies and stations will not bother to verify the information with her superiors.

It is not much, but it is far better than nothing.

_At least this way we can focus our defense on the planet._

The minutes turn to hours, which multiply with agonizing slowness. Even as she paces the bridge, checks Engineering, Operations, Science, comms down to the assorted personnel who run each and every aspect of her ship, Philippa cannot help but wonder at the second line of Michael’s painstakingly-crafted message.

 

_I have found the answer._

 

An allusion to Ambassador Sarek’s pep talk of sorts to his foster daughter, all those months ago. An answer as to how she might finish her work, how she might, _might,_ turn the tables on her captors.

So damn vague, so maddeningly mysterious, and the captain understands why but God help her, she wishes she had just a mere inkling of what, her former first officer might be plotting, if anything at all.

_Might have been plotting?_

At this, Philippa stops dead in front of the massive window at the forefront of the bridge. She releases a shaky sigh, slipping her right hand into her pocket to thumb across Michael’s comm-badge, the words carved into the metal now barely distinguishable from the rest of the surface after months of such treatment. For one brief moment, the captain allows herself to feel the yawning, hungry _fear_ that she has managed to suppress since Ambassador Sarek passed along Michael’s message.

The wormhole device is finished. Thus, Michael Burnham’s use has expired. Philippa knows not the precise details of what this will bring for her former commander, but hopes, prays, _pleads_ with the universe itself that she will be given a chance, just one more chance to do right by her.

The odds are slim.

But they are there.

 

 

 

Finally, _finally_ (and Philippa does not quite know why she feels relieved at this), Commander Saru glances at his console and does a double take.

“Captain…I am detecting gravitational disturbances concentrated around Earth.”

Philippa only stares at him, and the mixture of annoyance and expectancy in her face spurs the first officer along.

“They are slight now, but growing by the second.” Saru’s Kelpien hands dart across his console; Georgiou gives a clipped nod to Lieutenant Bryce, who turns towards his console to notify the rest of the _Discovery_.

Saru’s yellow green eyes are widening, and Philippa can see the astonished apprehension in his expression. “The disturbances are increasing in a logarithmic fashion, we have approximately fifteen seconds until it overloads the sensors entirely—“

_Now is the time, then._

“Mr. Richter, open a channel to the Earth Defense Network, tell them to scramble their forces!”

“Aye, Captain!” The man spins towards his console to carry out the order.

“Saru, can you give me any more specifics?”

Saru’s large alien hands fly across the data screen, numbers wink in and out of existence. “The gravitational readings are increasing rapidly and fluctuating by the micro-second, indicating significant warping of space-time.”

The Kelpien man looks at her with wide green eyes. “I have never seen such readings in all my years of service, this defies all laws of physics, Captain.”

“The wormhole device…” Philippa breathes, and turns towards her first officer. “Tell me, are we between the disturbances and the planet, or are we on the outside looking in?”

Shaking his head at the captain, Saru continues to ply his data screen for information. “It would appear to be the former, Captain. The disturbances are nearly one hundred million kilometers out, but form a near perfect sphere around the planet. The surface area of such coverage…”

Saru looks at her, and Philippa senses his horror. “It is nearly ten to the seventeenth power.”

The figure is almost inconceivable to the human brain, but the captain manages to recall that it is approximately the number of seconds between the Big Bang and the present day. It is an apparition of creation itself, a concept so huge and all encompassing that only gods could be capable of contemplating such a thing.

Clearly Michael Burnham’s talents were wasted in the service of Starfleet.

“Word from Earth Defense, Mr. Richter?”

Richter turns towards her with a quick shake of his head. “Commodore Park is scrambling now, she estimates twenty until airborne.”

“Understood." Georgiou cannot help but roll her eyes as she strides to the captain’s chair.

Of course, she knew full well that it will take a decent amount of time for Earth to muster its defenses; there has not been a threat to the planet in well over forty years, the troops will be rusty, the response time will be slow. Weak back-up is better than no back-up at all, but for _God’s sake_ , twenty minutes?

“ _Captain!_ ”

The shout is terrified, and Georgiou whips her head towards its source. Saru’s large Kelpien hands grip his console in a vice, threat ganglia flared, green-yellow eyes wide with abject horror.

 

 

And in the next second, the universe goes still.

 

 

Detmer’s hands drop limply from her controls. Owosekun slumps over her console. Richter’s voice over the subspace channel staggers and goes silent.

In her command chair, Philippa Georgiou feels like she’s been thrown into an icy lake. Her stomach falls into her feet, and dread claws its way up into her throat. Breathing becomes a challenge as her body forgets how to power her diaphragm and expand her lungs.

If she were a nerve, she would be rubbed so raw that there would be nothing left.

The _Discovery’s_ proximity sensors chime from somewhere very far away. Philippa dimly registers the howling of the sensors, the blinking red lights on Owosekun’s console. Using every shred of her strength, every ounce of her stubborn will, Philippa manages to regain control of her left hand. She reaches for the datascreen in her armrest to turn the ambient lighting to maximum, and hot white light bursts across the bridge like a solar flare.

Detmer yelps, Owosekun throws up a hand to block her eyes, and Richter gasps like he’s been pulled from a river. Philippa looks over her shoulder and notes Saru clawing his way up from where he had dropped to his knees.

They make eye contact, and Saru nods to indicate that he is alright.

“…pulling up a visual now,” the Kelpien man gasps. His hand trembles as he carries out the action.

The viewscreen changes image to show the inky blackness of space being parted like a curtain. Space-time wobbles precariously in several distinct patches with defined edges, not quite circular, but not quite spherical either. The incomprehensible dimensions make Philippa’s eyes hurt by looking at them.

In the visual feed alone, the captain can count over ten of the aberrations, and the magnification of the image denoted in the corner of the viewscreen makes her swallow in fear.

“How many?” Philippa dreads the answer.

Saru looks down at the number displayed on the console, and back towards her. “Nine hundred and eighty six.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I deeply regret making a plot for this story.


	12. Best Laid Plans

 

On the bridge of the Klingon science vessel, Michael Burnham is the only one still on her feet.

Ironic, considering the present state of her body, sick with Klingon viruses, weak from malnourishment, aching from the recent beating, but true nonetheless.

Lingering pains aside, her punishment at the hands of her captors for sending the warning message to the Federation had not been as terrible as anticipated. Michael hypothesizes that her Klingon shipmates had been wary of accidentally killing her in her weak state, and gives thanks for this small mercy.

Not that it will make much of a difference in the end.

The members of the Klingon skeleton crew are all on their knees, gasping and heaving at the sensation of the wormhole device firing mere decks away as it rips open nine hundred and eighty-six holes in space-time.

It is not that Michael cannot feel the horrific rending of the universe, the way her stomach is turning inside out, her entire body like a nail run down a chalkboard; it is more that these feelings are _feelings,_ a significant change from the blank nothingness she has felt for the past several months, after strangling her emotions the day of Lord T’Kuvma’s brutal visit.

To say that she enjoys the feeling of the device firing would be an overstatement of biblical proportions. However, she does savor it, in a way.

Michael has been on the bridge a great many times during her final months of captivity. In addition to her daily walk-shuffle, she has spend a good deal of time helping her Klingon crewmates reconfigure the internal codes and rewire the power couplings, so as to enable the device to fire and not disable the entire ship when it does so. As such, she feels no sense of disorientation by her surroundings.

Or at least she wouldn’t, were it not for the addition of one extra crewmember.

Lord T’Kuvma stands tall and proud at the paneled window of the science vessel. His back is turned to the bridge, and Michael imagines that he is regarding the stars with his eyes closed in reverence. The Klingon leader is deeply religious, Michael knows this from nearly a year of constant chatter from the other scientists, and she reasons that he is silently offering prayers and litanies to Kahless on the eve of this battle.

Only the clench of his fists around his bat’leth, propped upright on the deck like a staff, give away his physical distress at the wormhole device tearing so many holes in the fabric of the universe.

Michael should not have been so surprised at his presence here; after all, the Klingon messiah naturally would want to be on the ship where his glorious device will ensure the victory of the Klingon Empire. She should be honored, she supposes. There is almost no doubt in her mind as to what will happen next.

Lord T’Kuvma will be the one to end her life, now that her work is done.

Michael wonders if it will be before the attack on Earth begins, a ceremonial “first blood,” so to speak, or after the attack, so that she will go to her death with the full knowledge of what she has done. Nevertheless, she is ready, her fate having become clear to her several months previous, and she feels no fear.

The small primitive device she has pieced together over the course of many months is stashed away beneath her jacket, ready to deal Michael Burnham a quick death before her captors can do so.

The science vessel moves slowly through the rip in space-time that the wormhole device has placed before it. Michael can see the aberration in reality rippling through the paneled windows of the bridge as the ship passes through it, but she remains physically unaffected. The metal hull of the Klingon vessel acts as a type of armor against the tesseract, shielding their three-dimensional bodies from the four-dimensional forces.

The rips in space-time are happening all over the galaxy, where nine hundred and eighty-five Klingon cruisers are being plucked from the warfront like fruits from a vine, proceeding through the portals that Michael’s machine is opening for them.

The distance and the number of ships had been a non-issue; no, it was the _mass_ of the ships that had given Michael the greatest amount of trouble, as well as the sheer variability of the distances themselves. Some ships were mere kilometers away from the machine, others entire quadrants. Getting the wormhole device to handle the wildly varying coordinates of nine hundred and eighty-six distinct warp signatures had been one of the greatest difficulties of the last five months. Nevertheless, she had solved that particular problem, as she had solved so many others during the construction of this machine.

 _It had to be warp signatures,_ Michael acknowledges, and she had fought hard against the rest of the Klingon war scientists on this issue. _Not coordinates, not the locations of the ships themselves._

_Warp signatures._

The subtle, yet unique quantum imprint of a starship’s warp core. Each wormhole is keyed to whichever ship it will be transporting, a stroke of simple brilliance, which in reality had been quite difficult to achieve. But Michael had taken on the full burden of doing so, and the Klingons had let her.

This thought gives her quiet satisfaction on this day, the last day of her life.

“ _Look._ ”

The grunt comes from Lord T’Kuvma, who stands away from the window now, revealing the view before them. He beckons towards her with his arm, and Michael limps forward on aching legs until she stands next to him.

The planet is blue and green beneath the deep gray of cloud coverage, and Michael feels a twinge of _something_ deep in her chest, because she hasn’t seen this particular planet in nearly two years.

“ _Beautiful._ ” She acknowledges impassively. The fluid in her lungs, the ever-present cough in her throat allows her to easily grate the syllables in a Klingon accent. From his place beside her, T’Kuvma nods once in acknowledgement.

“ _You have done well, Mich-ael Burn-ham,”_ T’Kuvma grates. “ _This day will end in victory for the Klingon Empire. From here, our empire will spread across the galaxy, reborn in me…”_

T’Kuvma turns to face her now, the obvious threat of his broad, dark features contrasted only slightly by the clearness of his gaze.

“… _and in you.”_

Michael imagines how this must look to those watching, the two of them standing at the window of this flagship, regarding each other firmly, squarely.

The honored Klingon messiah, T’Kuvma the Unforgettable, resplendent, powerful, regal with the armor and blade of his father…

…and Michael Burnham, the disgraced Human mutineer, sick, malnourished, clothed in the uniform of the Federation that she had betrayed.

“ _In gratitude for your service, I will give you a quick, painless death.”_ T’Kuvma stares down at her, and Michael nods once in thanks.

It is more than she expected.

“ _And…_ ” T’Kuvma continues to look at her. “ _I will give you the honor of death at my own blade._ ”

Michael blinks, because it truly _is_ an honor, a massive one, she understands enough about Klingon culture to understand this. For the leader of the Klingon armies to personally execute _her_ , a Human, a prisoner of war, a traitor to her race…

But in the next second, Michael remembers Lady L’Rell, T’Kuvma’s honored second, dead at her captain’s hands. She remembers T’Kuvma’s brutal personal visit over four months ago, the goal of which had been to avenge L’Rell’s death.

Michael sighs at the realization. _Of course he would want me to die at his own blade._

Despite having nothing to lose, she does not dare speak the thought out loud.

“ _But as for your message…_ ” The tip of T’Kuvma’s bat’leth points threateningly at Michael’s throat, his voice lowered to a fierce growl.

T’Kuvma turns to the techs on the bridge, who are still in the process of pulling themselves off of the floor.

“ _The communications array is ready?_ ”

Il’Ran nods quickly. “ _Yes, Lord T’Kuvma, in your ready room, along with the ceremonial flames._ ”

The Klingon leader nods once, before gripping Michael by the shoulder.

_“I have been looking forward to this for a long time, Mich-ael Burn-ham.”_

He strides across the bridge, dragging Michael’s weakened body with him. A side door opens, and T’Kuvma shoves her through it. Michael has only a brief moment to look around and take in the surroundings before he shoves her to the center of the room.

It is a small room, six meters by eight meters, a Klingon-size desk and computer at one end, three large chalices filled with flame at the other. A long window panels the wall across from the door she’s just been pushed through, revealing twinkling stars and several distant warships.

Behind the desk, Michael is disheartened to see a large, custom communications panel, no doubt jury-rigged by the Klingon techs aboard the science vessel.

 _A great many systems on this ship were weakened to give power to the wormhole device_ , Michael remembers, _comms being one of them._

But clearly, Lord T’Kuvma had wanted a powerful functioning communication array on this ship, and it takes Michael very little effort to understand why.

From the sheer size of the communication tech, it’s obvious that whatever happens here will be broadcast system-wide, on every channel and network there is. Every ship, every space station, every person with a functioning viewing device will pick up this signal.

Everyone in the entire Sol system will watch her death.

_Not if I have anything to say about it._

The small of Michael’s back burns hot with the death device she has hidden away, and she focuses on it with all of her might.

T’Kuvma forces Michael to her knees in the center of the room, and she cannot help a gasp of pain when her kneecaps make hard contact with the deck. He voice-activates the device with a series of Klingon grunts, and the computer speaks back to him in the same language.

Alone in a locked room with Lord T’Kuvma…

A trace of a notion of a hint of an idea ghosts its way into Michael’s consciousness, and she regards it with disbelief, nearly to the point of rejecting such a ludicrous fantasy altogether…

Until T’Kuvma _laughs_ from his position above her.

“ _Listen to that! Seems your message failed, Traitor, there is only one Starfleet signature in the entire system, just one!_ ”

Michael’s head snaps up from where she kneels in front of the Klingon leader.

_No… no, this is not how it was supposed to happen--_

Her eyes widen with horror, but T’Kuvma continues.

“ _I recognize that Starfleet signature, Mich-ael Burn-ham, it is the Ghost Ship!_ ”

Michael shakes her head in vehement denial, her heart plunging into her feet.

“ _I expected this, but it pleases me regardless. I know who captains this ship._ ” The glee in his voice is obvious, and he drives a knee into Michael’s back, not hard enough to knock her over, but hard enough to hurt. The impact makes her cough harshly, bracing her hands against the floor for purchase, but T’Kuvma grips her hair and forces her torso upright. She places one foot on the ground to brace herself, and T’Kuvma allows this, no doubt well-assured of her weakness.

“ _I want her to see your face, Traitor. It will give me great pleasure to make her suffer once more, and this time…be able to watch it happen. Computer!_ ” T’Kuvma barks. “ _Open visual channel to the Ghost Ship_.”

The computer complies, and the viewscreen crackles and hisses with static, before finally flattening to display the simple visage of a Human woman.

From her place on her knees, Michael Burnham sways as her body loses the ability to keep itself rigid.

“ _Honored Klingon comrades…Humans of Earth…and Captain Philippa Georgiou…_ ”

T’Kuvma grates out the name, as if it is hard for him to even form the words with his Klingon tongue.

Philippa’s face is on the viewscreen, above the desk and well above Michael’s head, but there is no doubt in her mind that the woman can see her. T’Kuvma would have made it so.

“ _I have your mutineer, your_ _Mich-ael Burn-ham_. _Not so dead as you thought_.”

Michael can hear the words, she _hears_ them, but as for processing, well…

Philippa Georgiou’s stunning face is looking down on her now. Michael has not seen that face in over a year, and the once-familiar features strike her like a physical blow. Her pale complexion, chiseled Asian features, deep dark eyes, jet-black hair curled and cascading over her right shoulder in its low ponytail…

 

The stranglehold that Michael had placed on her heart suddenly bursts open.

 

Every lock and chain she had clamped over her emotions crumbles to dust, and the _feelings_ that she had suppressed for so long well up inside her chest like a tidal wave.

It is hard to say if Michael has ever in her life felt this kind of physical manifestation of emotion. Something electric travels up and down her spine, sending warm heat spreading through her bloodstream, rising to the surface of her skin like the warm Vulcan sunrise…even as the pit of her stomach grows cold with the humiliating nature of her current position.

The combined sensations lay her utterly low from where she kneels at Lord T’Kuvma’s feet.

“ _She lives now…because she is a traitor!_ ” T’Kuvma snarls, gesticulating sharply with the arm not holding the bat’leth. Michael flinches and lowers her gaze, unable to look at her captain from the accusation.

It was one thing to reconcile her feelings concerning her actions in building the wormhole device while alone on a ship full of Klingons, but now, faced by the woman whose approval, whose _love_ she had always longed for, she finds that she cannot manage to suppress her shame.

“ _The mutineer…she betrayed you once before, Captain Georgiou, now she has betrayed all of you. She built this technology that tears the universe apart…she is the reason that the Klingon Empire will spread across the stars. She started this war with her actions…and she will end it, with her actions._ ”

Michael summons every scrap of her courage to peer back up at Philippa’s face. To her immense surprise, the captain does not look angry.

She looks _terrified._

“ _Maghwl’ Burnham, spread her name to your race, remember her for what she has done_!”

_Traitor. Defector. Mutineer._

Michael thinks that her heart might stop from the shame of it all. A part of her hopes that it does.

“ _You will watch her die, Captain Georgiou. You will all watch her die._ ”

From her knees, Michael continues to stare up at her captain’s face.

Gods, how could she have forgotten those features? Even in a state of barely-concealed panic, Philippa Georgiou is still the most beautiful thing she’s seen in twelve months, twelve days, two hours…

Approximately thirty-eight minutes.

T’Kuvma grabs her by the hair and shakes her roughly. “Any last words, _Mich-ael Burn-ham_?”

In the span of a single moment, with her captain’s stunning face gazing down at her, Michael comes to several realizations.

She realizes, logically, that if she dies now at the hands of Lord T’Kuvma, silent and on her knees, it will strike a brutal, demoralizing blow to the only Starfleet ship here to defend the planet. It will devastate her captain, compromise her command abilities, and with it, her safety and that of her ship.

But these logical concerns are a dim afterthought in light of the scalding emotion powering through Michael’s bloodstream, laying waste to her Vulcan processes and breaking her heart wide open like a supernova, carrying with it the revelation that _she_ _does not want to die like this._

Not like this.

Not with her head bowed in passive acceptance of her fate, not kneeling at the feet of the Klingon messiah, not executed in front of her former comrades like an animal on a chopping block, and sure as  _hell_ not with Philippa Georgiou watching.

Not like this.

 

Not without a fight.

 

“ _Any last words_?”

 

Michael’s smile, when it breaks, is small and weak.

But it’s there.

She takes one last look at Philippa’s beautiful face, and thinks of her courage, her captain’s brilliant, brave, _reckless_ courage for showing up to what, by all indication, will be a massacre.

And as Michael takes in the sight, easily the most wonderful thing she has seen in twelve months, twelve days, a hot flare of energy lances through her body, and Michael remembers.

She _remembers_ why she had embraced these illogical, irreconcilable feelings so damn long ago.

T’Kuvma’s bat’leth falls, Michael can see it in the dull reflection in the polished wood of the desk, but her blood is running hot with her Human emotions, giving power to her limbs and strength to her conviction.

_At the very least, I can buy them time._

Michael is already moving. The bat’leth hits the floor where she’d been just a moment ago, hard enough to stick for a brief second. It’s enough time Michael to complete a dive roll and grab for the device she’s hidden at the small of her back, under the Starfleet jacket that hangs loose on her frame.

She’s been growing weak for the past several months, incredibly weak, that much has been obvious to her captors, and Michael has done nothing to dissuade them in this conviction. As such, they had not cared one way or another when they saw her toying with the scraps of metal in heaps littering the science deck.

They never looked at her with anything but confusion and annoyance when she pocketed the tubular metal chips produced by the fission hacksaw, no more than the size of a human thumb.

They never attempted to stop her when she fiddled with the oversized Klingon-manufactured welding torch as if it were child’s flashlight, completely missing the moments when she’d use the torch to fuse a thin, hollow metal rod to a thicker, hollow rectangular piece.

Neither are hollow now.

Michael’s modified slugthrower is possibly the crudest, most primitive object she has ever held in her hands with the intent to use, but she is going to use it now with the most powerful intent she’s ever felt. She levels the device at T’Kuvma’s neck with steady arms, her body coiled in a low crouch as the Klingon leader storms towards her with a roar of furious rage, bat’leth raised high.

_Of course…Humans have a far shorter term for such a weapon…_

The slugthrower is primitive, jury-rigged, and absolutely ridiculous, but Michael Burnham did not spend four years at the Vulcan Science Academy for nothing. The weight, the balance, even the inherent flaws in the construction have all been accounted for, noted with a scientist’s brain. Michael knows exactly how to aim the device, and this will be critical. She only has one shot, one single shot, never having anticipated needing more, she _has_ to make it count...

T’Kuvma is right above her now, snarling with fury, bat’leth poised to strike—

Michael takes the shot.

With a _BANG_ and a gust of black smoke, the slugthrower discharges. T’Kuvma grates out an agonized howl, and Michael immediately throws herself to the side to avoid the Klingon blade careening out of the sky.

The tip of the bat’leth slices through the leg of her uniform pants, scoring a bloody line down her thigh, a glancing blow which stings nonetheless. Michael hurls her body behind the massive wooden desk, emerging on the other side to see Lord T’Kuvma thudding towards her, even as he struggles to breath through the deep, gaping wound her weapon has dealt to his throat. Blood gushes from the wound like a geyser, spattering onto the deck in front of him.

Even wounded, T’Kuvma is far and away stronger than she is; thus, Michael’s first strategy is a defensive one.

She whirls around and grabs the chair behind her, lobbing it across the room with a grunt of exertion. The chair hits T’Kuvma hard enough to knock him back just a foot, and Michael’s eyes scan the area quickly for other projectiles. With none in sight, Michael flips the slugthrower in her hand and throws it by the barrel at T’Kuvma’s face.

A weapon is weapon, and she will be damned if she doesn’t use everything at her disposal.

The hit to the face might as well be the flick of a pebble to a Klingon warrior, but Michael quickly follows after it, her strategy turning from defensive to offensive with no more objects to throw. Even desperately wounded, T’Kuvma is still a powerful opponent, so she tosses the idea of a head-on attack. Michael ducks beneath his wildly swinging blade, twisting behind the Klingon leader to leap onto his back. She bars his neck with one arm and forces her opposite hand deep into the wound created by the slugthrower.

T’Kuvma’s agonized scream is cut off when Michael’s fingers clench around his windpipe and squeeze hard, forcing yet more blood from the wound. He drops his bat’leth and reaches both of his arms over his shoulders to grab her by the back of the neck. Michael is weakened from disease and injury, and despite her efforts to hang on, T’Kuvma breaks her grip to throw her bodily over his head and onto the ground.

 _He’s fighting like a berserker,_ Michael observes with no little fear from her painful position on the floor. She’s all but ripped T’Kuvma’s throat out, and the Klingon leader is still on his feet and staggering after her.

Michael stumbles to her knees. Her hand reaches into her boot, but before she can make the distance, T’Kuvma’s fists are around her neck.

He rips her off of her floor easily, her toes leaving the deck. T’Kuvma’s clenching grip around her throat is not particularly powerful, likely due to his injury, but Michael's body is weak from long-term illness, and spots swim in front of her eyes as she gapes and struggles in his Klingon hands.

T’Kuvma’s dark face is less than a meter away, and his expression is murderous, hatred coiling behind his gray eyes, mouth contorted into a fearsome snarl.

With every ounce of her strength, every shred of will that Michael has left, she flexes her core muscles, swinging her right foot up to meet her hand.

Her makeshift knife slides from her boot.

Crude, slipshod, barely more than a piece of metal sharpened to a fine edge by the rotation of the gears in one of the bizarre Klingon subspace engines, but in her bloody hand, it looks like a true instrument of death.

Michael’s fine motor control is weakened by oxygen deprivation, and for one terrifying moment, the knife nearly drops from numb fingers. But in the next second, she regains her grip, bringing the blade up to stab into the fleshy inside of one of T’Kuvma’s elbows.

A weak blow, but enough to break the Klingon leader’s hold around her throat.

Michael drops to the ground, her feet and knees hitting the deck hard. She heaves in a gasping, rattling breath, barely managing to stay upright as she does so. The room spins, T’Kuvma’s arms reach towards her once more, but Michael lashes out with the blade almost blindly, nearly severing two of the fingers on his right hand. T’Kuvma recoils with a grating shout.

Another deep, gasping breath and Michael is moving once more. She stays low to the ground as she lunges forward, grabbing the Klingon’s calf for leverage and using it to slide around behind him to plunge the blade into the sinew-y part of the back of his opposite knee. She twists hard, and T’Kuvma howls again.

He lashes out in a back kick that takes Michael hard in the face. In a burst of pain, she feels her nose crunch, her lip split wide open. Hot blood pours from the wounds, but somehow she maintains her grip on the knife with one hand, T’Kuvma’s ankle with the other.

She pulls the knife out and stabs it into T’Kuvma’s calf, the only part of him she can reach at this point, flat on the ground and barely able to see through the agony in her face. With the Klingon distracted by the new pain, Michael’s feet find purchase and she throws herself between his legs as far as she can, towards the discarded bat’leth only meters away.

Michael’s fingers are sticky with blood, which is probably the only reason she’s able to maintain her grip on handholds designed for massive Klingon hands.

T’Kuvma lunges for her in a blind, screaming rage as Michael staggers to her feet, bat’leth in hand, and she can barely lift the damn thing, she’s sick, she’s injured, she’s _Human-_

-but the pointed, polished tip comes up and forward, Michael thrusts with all of her might, and the blade plunges deep into T’Kuvma’s stomach.

The same place he’d stabbed her, over a year ago.

Bat’leths are instruments of death, designed to cause maximum damage and cruel injury in any living creature that they strike, so there’s no real need for Michael to twist the blade as she did her knife.

Michael twists anyway.

T’Kuvma gives a shocked, bloody gurgle and falls to the side. The bat’leth pulls out of his midsection with a wet sound, and the Klingon’s body hits the floor with a heavy finality. His eyes blink open and shut as he clings to his last shreds of consciousness, and Michael watches as the life slowly leaves his body.

 

T’Kuvma’s chest finally goes still.

 

In the heavy silence of the Klingon ready room, Michael stares down at the corpse with wide eyes, her heart pounding from the intensity of the short, yet brutal fight. Her surroundings turn hazy as her weak lungs begin to reassert themselves, and she gasps for breath, bat’leth still clutched in bloody, trembling hands. Adrenaline is likely the only thing keeping her upright, weak as she is, but the astonishment of the moment is surely contributing.

 

Lord T’Kuvma, leader of the Klingon army, is dead.

 

Michael hears a soft sound from behind her, and turns around to face the desk.

Philippa Georgiou’s shocked face is staring at her, as well as the shocked faces of the _Discovery_ ’s bridge crew.

The transmission had been open the entire time.

Michael struggles for what she might say to her captain, to the crew, to the Klingon forces, to everyone in the entire system who saw the fight, but before she can do anything at all, the bridge of the _Discovery_ shakes, clear sounds of stellar explosions cutting across the channel.

The vidscreen winks out.

Through the windows of T’Kuvma’s Klingon equivalent of a ready room, Michael sees screaming red and green phase cannon blasts cutting through the vacuum of space.

The battle has begun.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Priority One of this fic was making Georgiou be Not Dead.
> 
> Priority Two was making Michael Burnham be a badass.
> 
> I borrowed the term "slugthrower" from the Star Wars lexicon because it has a good sci-fi ring to it, and also I feel like old-school projectile weapons will have an overarching term by the 23rd century, like a unifying term that works across many cultures and planets.
> 
> That's what I'm going with.


	13. Burnham's Redemption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that last episode of Disco made me really uncomfortable.
> 
> Still gonna write this fic though.
> 
> Thanks for all of the kudos on that last chapter, apparently everyone likes badass Burnham (noted). Also thanks to user geralove for somehow leaving six kudos. No idea how you managed that, but cheers!

 

 

 _The woman looks like an Earth warrior of old,_ Philippa Georgiou considers weakly as she stares at the viewscreen.

Michael Burnham stands in a hunched, threatening stance over the body of the Klingon she just killed, bat’leth clutched in bloody hands, back heaving as she gasps for breath. Her teeth are clenched in a snarl, her bruised, bloody face cast in mysterious shadow by the low light and ceremonial fires of the Klingon ship.

She looks utterly ferocious.

Philippa’s heart begins to beat normally again, the cold terror in her chest during the entirety of the impossible fight finally easing. From her place aboard the Klingon ship, Michael glances towards the viewscreen, her astonished face taking in Philippa and the entire bridge of the _Discovery._

“Captain, the Klingons are locking on to our position, weapons hot!” Detmer exclaims. The bridge shudders as the first round of phaser fire makes contact, and the transmission cuts out.

 

With considerable effort, Philippa shakes herself out of her shocked daze and strides to the middle of the bridge, placing her hands on the command console.

“Evasive maneuver eight-delta-two, Detmer! Airiam?”

The android lieutenant looks up from her console.

“Ensure that we are ready to jump.”

“Captain!” Commander Saru exclaims. “We may have an advantage in our spore drive, but surely you cannot think that it will win us this battle.”

Phaser fire winks across the bridge viewscreen, and the ship trembles from the hits.

“We are impossibly outgunned and outmatched!”

Unable to stop herself, Philippa slams an angry hand down on the console. “So was she, Saru! Did it stop her?”

She senses, rather than sees, the determined faces of Detmer and Owosekun. Airiam’s impassive robotic face seems to harden. Richter nods once from where he sits at the communications console, his mouth set in a grim line.

 _They are inspired,_ Philippa realizes. _Inspired by Michael’s courage._

_As am I._

“Get me Stamets, I want him ready to jump yesterday.”

Airiam nods briskly and complies, and Saru turns back to his console, threat ganglia mercifully silent.

Her Kelpien First Officer is the necessary counterbalance to Georgiou’s brash determination to charge in, guns blazing, and Philippa is grateful to him for that. She doesn’t fault him for bringing up valid points concerning _Discovery_ ’s physical safety.

But there is no time for such considerations right now.

This is the final battle, Philippa knows this with every fiber of her being. And though they _are_ outgunned and outmatched, she reasons that Starfleet will send for reinforcements once it becomes clear that the Klingons have abandoned the front in favor of an all out attack on Earth.

The _Discovery_ just has to hold off the Klingon armada until said reinforcements arrive.

_And God only knows when that will be._

Owosekun’s hands dance across her console. “Captain…the Klingon vessels are jumping to warp!”

“How many?” Georgiou demands.

The ops officer’s eyes dart across the readouts. “Six hundred and twenty one…no, six hundred and twenty five!”

“Breaking rank?” Saru posits.

“Propagating the attack, more like,” Georgiou denies. “They don’t need one thousand cruisers for one planet with minimal defense.”

And, she acknowledges to herself, even if the Klingon ships were to break rank after the humiliating death of their leader, they would still need to fight their way out of the core systems, out of the Alpha Quadrant itself. This had been a one-way journey from the start, at this point the only way any of the Klingon ships will be able to return to Klingon territory is by conquering all of Federation space.

“That leaves three hundred and sixty warships on attack vector for Earth!” Owosekun exclaims.

"Lieutenant, you're missing one," Saru chimes in from his console. "There should be three hundred and sixty one ships left."

"It's their command ship, sir, T'Kuvma's ship..." Owosekun turns towards him. "It's immobile, no engine fire."

"That ship is not a warship, it's a science vessel, it won't be joining the battle," Georgiou clarifies quickly. "Three hundred and sixty warships, and keep an eye on that statistic, Ops, if any of them cloak I want to know about it.” The captain's hands dart across the command console as she gives the order. “Tactical, how are their shields?”

Rhys’s dark eyes take in the readouts. “Sensors indicate graviton layering with reverse polarity and a flipped quantum signature.”

He looks towards Georgiou with fear in his eyes. “Every ship in range of the scanners has shield slicers.”

_So it is likely that every ship in the armada does as well._

Georgiou feels a spike of fear in her own chest. Not for the _Discovery,_ her own ship is certainly fast enough to evade T’Kuvma’s deadly slicing tech, but the Earth Defense Force vessels are not.

“Richter, contact Commodore Park and warn them, make sure their ships stay well out of range of those Klingon shield slicers.”

“Aye, Captain!”

Just one brush to a ship’s deflector shields with the latest slicer technology would force the shields off-line permanently, something that the _Discovery_ had learned the hard way only two months ago.

Georgiou shakes her head at the memory. The only reason that they hadn’t been blown to bits during that particular battle was an emergency jump to the mycelium network. Earth’s defense forces will not be so fortunate.

“What about Burnham’s ship, won’t it be in danger?” Detmer’s blue eyes are wide with concern, and Georgiou is touched by her worry.

“Doubtful, the enemy will not want to destroy their own wormhole device.”

Her response is clipped and purposefully skirts over several other issues, namely, the fact that Michael is now alone, sick, weak, and injured on a ship full of Klingons. This thought is truly terrifying, but it will only distract from the here-and-now, so Georgiou suppresses it with everything she has.

She has become quite good at this over the past year.

With quick flicks of her fingers, she brings up a three-dimensional holo-image of Earth, the Klingon ships depicted in red, the _Discovery_ in green. The holo looks remarkably like a large swarm of angry insects converging upon a droplet of honey, with _Discovery_ the lone worker drone to defend it. Even with two-thirds of the armada going to warp, they are impossibly, _hilariously_ outnumbered; it is the type of image that Georgiou would laugh at if she were to see it in a textbook or simulation.

But this is reality, and she will have to deal with it.

Philippa Georgiou is no slouch in interstellar warfare, the Laikin Military Academy on Andoria does not give out diplomas in Advanced Interstellar Combat to just anyone, after all, but the battles she had fought as an aspirant candidate were as part of an army, not as a single ship. The planet-based warfare tactics she had been trained in hinged on the idea that she would have a significant number of her own forces to draw on; that the battle would be somewhat evenly matched.

Georgiou clenches her teeth. She’s going to have to rethink all of the strategy she has ever known.

“Remember, the enemy’s gate is down.”

Detmer’s comment is only a little bit sardonic, but in a flash, Philippa remembers the old-Earth novel that her former commander had once quoted to her, on that magical night many months ago when the gravity emitters had failed.

_They have a direction, a focus, a target…_

_We do not._

A strategy solidifies in her mind immediately.

The captain barks out a heading, and the lights dim to black alert once more. The _Discovery_ jumps to the mycelium network.

“The plan, Captain?” Saru demands from his console.

“They are targeting Earth and Earth alone,” Georgiou responds briskly, “thus it follows that materializing aft of the ships will give us window of safety to fire while they adjust their weapons systems to the new target—“

“--and by the time they do that, we’ll be long gone!” Detmer finishes, a fierce grin audible in her voice.

Georgiou gives a brisk nod as the _Discovery_ re-emerges behind the Klingon forces massing over South America.

“Lock targets, fire at will! Aim for weapons arrays!”

_They can’t attack Earth without weapons._

The rain of phaser fire is audible only via sound effects added to the firing systems, based upon countless studies proving that reaction times improve if the effects of stellar blasts are made as real as possible to the human brain. Georgiou understands this, but appreciates the sounds all the same.

Phase cannon blasts pummel the Klingon forces directly ahead of them, floating directly between _Discovery_ and Earth.

“Direct hits to all vessels!” Owosekun exclaims. “They’re raising rear shields now, training weapons.”

“Stamets, heading nine-one-seven Mark four-eight-two, slingshot us around the planet!”

The _Discovery_ jumps again, and the effect of Earth’s gravity allows them a fraction of a second more speed.

Saru gasps as he takes in his console readouts. “Captain, it seems that using the spore drive for instantaneous travel in the warped space-time of Earth’s gravitational field-“

“-will effectively allow us to be in multiple places at once!” Georgiou completes, a little exhilarated. “Mr. Saru, that is precisely my intention.”

Saru’s green-yellow eyes are wide with astonished respect, and he nods once. Georgiou turns back to her holo-map, the three-dimensional schematic displaying the entire battlefield.

“Fire at will, give them everything we’ve got!”

The warships in front of them light up with explosions; a fraction of a second before they can lock on, Georgiou gives the order to jump again.

And again.

And again.

The seconds slide into minutes, which pass agonizingly slowly, yet lightning fast as well. Photon torpedoes are risky to use so close to an inhabited planet, but Georgiou considers this a secondary concern under the circumstances; nevertheless she orders targets be locked entirely before discharging the stellar mines. Phase cannons fire at the Klingon warbirds, with barely enough time to strike effectively before the _Discovery_ dematerializes. Like a stinging fly on the back of a horse, the _Discovery_ is proving too quick to easily catch, but too small to cause a truly significant amount of damage.

Georgiou wipes the sweat from her brow as she gives the order for their one hundred and eighty second jump. Her dark eyes reflect the holo-image of the planetary battle, depicting the damage to the enemy ships as well as their own. The schematic shows an entire fourteen images of _Discovery,_ their presence multiplied by their light-speed travel warped in Earth’s gravity well.

Despite the brilliant strategy, T’Kuvma’s armada is still closing in on the planet. _Discovery_ may be the fastest ship in Starfleet, but she is only one ship. They are difficult to catch, but not impossible, and the Klingons are learning fast.

“Shields at forty-eight percent, Captain!” Saru exclaims. “They are catching on to our strategy!”

The captain’s mouth twists. “Richter, where the hell are Earth’s defenses?”

“Scrambling now, Captain, Commodore Park estimates two minutes out.”

“For God’s sake.” Georgiou mutters under her breath. “Stamets, heading eight-four-two, Mark fifty-four-twelve!”

Nothing happens.

“Stamets?” Georgiou’s brow furrows in concern, but phaser blasts from the surrounding Klingon forces rock the bridge and quickly knock her from her thoughts.

“Gamma two-five, Detmer,” she barks towards the Helm officer. “Airiam, what’s happening down there?”

Airiam looks up from her console, head cocked and eyes wide as she receives the report. “Stamets has collapsed, Captain, severe bradychardia, brain activity off the charts, unresponsive to all stimuli.”

 _The strain of the rapid jumps,_ Georgiou reasons, and cold fear spikes in her belly. Detmer looks over her shoulder, panic all but spelled out in her blue eyes.

If they cannot jump, the _Discovery_ is practically dead in the water.

“Eight warships converging on our position, Captain!” Owosekun exclaims. “Weapons charged and locked.”

“Alpha-twelve-one, Detmer, all power from nonessential systems to shields!” It’s a stopgap measure at best, but Georgiou has no other options at the moment. Without the spore drive, vaporization is not an if, but a when.

The bridge shakes and shudders as phaser blasts hammer against the shields, and the captain grits her teeth as she holds onto her console for balance.

“Repeat heading, Captain!” Airiam cocks her head as she listens to Engineering, her face showing clear astonishment.

Georgiou whips her head to look at her and restates the heading with some confusion.

To her intense, visible relief, the black alert lights hum to life, and outer space dilates on the viewscreen as the _Discovery_ jumps to the mycelium network. The entire bridge seems to unclench, Georgiou included.

“Engineering status?” The captain demands.

“It’s…Cadet Tilly, Captain!” Airiam’s crystal blue eyes are wide with shock as she takes in the report, and she looks up from the screen to stare at Georgiou. “She injected herself with the last of the tardigrade DNA!”

The captain and her spore drive officer make stunned eye contact at the realization, and respect for the cheerful, awkward cadet rises in Georgiou’s chest like a tide. She can practically picture the young woman throwing herself into the drive chamber, curly red hair streaming behind her, face contorted in agony as the drive needles stab her body in six different places.

The captain had not exaggerated when she said that she could not have asked for a better crew to fight by her side.

But there is no time for further contemplation.

“Then we continue on.”

The addition of Earth’s starships does not turn the tide nearly as much as Georgiou hoped it would. She leaves the command of the forces in Commodore Park’s hands, her only concession to their presence an open communications line so that Park will know of their jump coordinates and react accordingly. It would not do to rematerialize directly on top of an allied ship; the result would likely be mutual destruction.

Georgiou’s mind wanders briefly to the only ship that has not joined the fray.

T’Kuvma’s command vessel has been still and quiet since the Battle for Earth began. No change in status, no energy fluctuations…nothing. It has not moved from its original position, and remains far from the planet and the heat of battle.

Phaser blasts rock the _Discovery,_ and Georgiou swears audibly before she can stop herself.

_Focus!_

She spits a heading for their four hundred and fifty-fourth jump, and the _Discovery_ dematerializes once more.

“Captain, Earth’s forces are down to a mere four ships, two of which are close to being disabled.” Saru’s voice is clinical, with no hint of panic, and Georgiou cannot help but feel grateful for the man’s newfound steadiness. Nevertheless, his news could not be more unwelcome.

Georgiou understands full well that the Federation has not managed to develop effective counterstrategies for T’Kuvma’s shield slicers, and with every Klingon ship in the armada equipped with the technology, Earth Defense never had much of a chance to begin with. Nevertheless, if any of them survive this battle, the captain will be having strong words with Starfleet command concerning Earth’s combat readiness, because honestly?

This is just pathetic.

Her eyes flicker back to the holographic map, noting which Klingon vessels are the closest to firing range of the planet and making a heading accordingly.

The _Discovery_ jumps and rematerializes, only to experience instant pummeling fire from all sides. The bridge lights flicker, and Rhys’s console all but explodes in the man’s face. The tactical officer screams in agony and collapses onto the deck.

Georgiou’s eyes widen, because Crossfield-class ships are supposed to be immune to this particular design flaw, the one that the _Shenzhou_ had fallen victim to countless times over the years.

They _must_ be in a bad way, then.

“Five vessels locked onto us!” Saru exclaims.

 _A trap,_ Georgiou realizes grimly. _They’ve finally figured out our strategy._

“Jump to eight-five-seven, Mark forty eight twelve, now!”

The backup systems groan as the _Discovery_ attempts to accommodate the order. Georgiou can feel the body of the ship tremble and whine as it summons the last vestiges of power left in the core. The bridge shakes violently under the targeted assault of enemy phase cannons, and the ship’s infrastructure grates and moans in protest.

“Shields at three percent, aft impulse engines offline!” Saru exclaims, panic coloring his voice, and finally, _finally,_ the black alert lights come to life.

Georgiou feels, rather than sees, Cadet Sylvia Tilly screaming with the effort of moving the _Discovery_ for one final jump.

They rematerialize on the other side of Earth, and four Klingon warships immediately peel off from their trajectory to head straight for the _Discovery_. Philippa does not need her first officer to inform her of their status.

_No shields…no impulse…no power to the spore drive._

_We’re finished._

With steady, tired eyes, Philippa takes in the statistical readout on the bottom of the holo-schematic. The _Discovery_ has destroyed or disabled one hundred and eleven Klingon cruisers, out of three hundred and sixty-one.

Thirty percent of the present Klingon attack force.

A truly massive number for a single ship, one that Philippa can’t help but be proud of.

_With any luck, we’ve bought the core planets enough time for Starfleet to arrive._

The proximity sensors howl, the viewscreen shows the Birds-of-Prey closing in with sizzling hot weapons, but the _Discovery_ itself is silent and calm in acceptance of the inevitable. Saru closes his large Kelpien eyes, a peaceful expression on his face. Detmer lifts her chin in proud defiance where she sits at the helm, her blue eyes clear and steady.

This was a suicide mission from the beginning, an unwinnable battle, they had all known it, and gone in anyway with everything they had. Philippa looks around the bridge at her subordinates, her _comrades_ , and a fierce joy rises in her chest. She knows that she could not possibly be more proud of their performance today.

The captain straightens, squaring her shoulders for what will likely be her last several seconds of life...

 

…and the universe goes still.

 

Ice crackles and hardens over Philippa’s heart, stilling the organ where it resides her chest. Her stomach drops like the floor has disappeared beneath her, and her extremities go completely numb. She sways where she stands, only barely managing to remain upright.

At the communications console, Richter groans audibly in distress, and Saru shudders out a gasp from his console.

The four war-birds screaming towards them shake and stumble in their attack-trajectory.

Through her significant physical distress, Philippa manages to follow their erratic flight paths on the viewscreen, and her heart stops with the astonishment of seeing the four ships in the squadron physically, visibly _crumble_.

Outer space itself seems to expand from somewhere deep in their core outwards to their hulls, tearing the massive, kilometer-long Birds-of-Prey wide open from the inside out. The vivisection is total in its scope, and the ships fragment like glass against a hard surface, rubble scattering everywhere.

Philippa just barely manages to identify the odd, pulsing aberrations slicing through the physical centers of the ships for what they are, which is…

“ _Wormholes_ …” Saru manages to gasp, and Philippa shakily looks over her shoulder at him. Despite being on his knees, the Kelpien man is still tall enough to see over his console, and the readouts on the data screen are enough to cause his jaw to drop open.

“How many?” Philippa whispers, even though the readings on her own holo-map of Earth are more than enough of a confirmation.

Saru answers, bewildered astonishment obvious in his tone. “Three hundred…and sixty.”

Philippa’s jaw drops.

She turns back to her console to see the red blips of the Klingon forces winking out on the holo-display, slowly at first, then faster and faster and faster until the destruction is all but universal. Commander Saru pulls up a visual feed of Earth in its entirety, and what she sees on the viewscreen is enough to make Philippa Georgiou gape in pure, unmitigated shock.

Every single Klingon ship, every single one, even the ones the _Discovery_ had disabled, is _exploding_ , ripping apart from the inside out. The fiery infernos of the wreckage surround the Earth like a halo, glinting in mirrored doubles through the rips in space-time.

Through the wormholes that have somehow reopened their doors to consume the enemy ships in their entirety.

It’s a miracle.

“ _It’s impossible..._ ” Saru murmurs in astonishment, and realization breaks over Philippa like sunlight over the horizon.

“Michael…” she breathes as bright orange explosions dancing across her pale skin. Philippa’s eyes widen, her lips tremble, and finally her mouth widens into an uncontrollable, beaming smile.

Richter shakes his head in dazed relief, and Detmer laughs outright. Airiam’s android face looks slightly joyful. Even Rhys manages a weak smile in his barely-conscious state on the floor. The entire bridge seems to bask in the orange-yellow glow of the explosions that are currently decimating the entire Klingon armada, saving the _Discovery_ , saving Earth, saving _everyone._

“Captain!” Bryce exclaims, head tilting as he takes in audio reports. “I’m picking up word from outlying systems, reports of starship debris falling out of warp!”

Philippa is quite uncertain as to how much more astonishment she can manage on this day.

Bryce’s hands fly across his console. “The subspace detection systems are identifying the structure of the wreckage as Klingon…Captain, these reports…” The comm officer shakes his head in shock, and Philippa knows what is coming.

“There are over two hundred alerts of this nature,” Bryce finishes, dark eyes wide and trained on his data screen. “And more arriving by the second!”

Philippa and Saru make stunned eye contact. The first officer looks as shocked as Philippa imagines she does.

 

_Not just the Earth-bound ships…_

_Michael took out all of the ships._

 

Unable to do anything more for her shock, Philippa turns back towards her holo-schematic, well aware of the reciprocal movement of the rest of her bridge crew. The entire bridge watches in stunned silence as the lights representing the Klingon warships continue to blink out like stars snuffed from the night sky.

Once the last blip of red light finally vanishes from the holo, it takes every shred of Philippa Georgiou’s impressive self-control to not leap with joy.

Naturally, this does not stop her helm and ops officers from doing so.

Instead, the captain turns towards Lieutenant Bryce, her question obvious despite the utter astonishment painting her face. The comms officer glances at his console readouts and back to her. He gives Philippa an awed nod of confirmation, his dark eyes all but swimming in shock.

_Nine hundred and eighty-five Klingon warships…_

Philippa’s position as the captain of the only spore hub vessel in the Fleet means that she is up-to-date on the overarching tides of war, the information concerning the greater strategy and current numbers for Lord T’Kuvma’s war force.

She is well aware of what today’s miracle means for the outcome of the war with the Klingons.

 

_It’s finally over..._

 

From somewhere behind her, she hears Saru mumble, “ _Classic Burnham,_ ” and Philippa claps a hand over her mouth to catch the near-hysterical laugh bubbling up from her chest.

Not for the first time, the she wonders if her Kelpien first officer knows how unintentionally hilarious he his.

It all feels a little surreal; after all, she had truly believed that they were going to be vaporized less than one minute ago. Nevertheless, Philippa Georgiou allows herself a long sigh, the first blessedly unburdened breath she has taken since the _Discovery_ had jumped to Earth.

But before the captain can fully relax, she hears the chime of the proximity sensors from Owosekun’s console.

The beeping is deafening in the relative silence of the bridge. Philippa’s eyebrows knit in confusion, and she directs a brisk nod at her ops officer to handle it.

Owosekun cocks her head in confusion. “Picking up on a warp signature now, Klingon in origin…”

She looks up at the viewscreen, then back towards the captain, her dark face falling open with shock. “…and over fifteen times the size of a Bird-of-Prey class starship.”

 

A beat of silence hangs over the bridge.

 

“Are you _fucking_ kidding me?”

Philippa can’t help the vicious swear, because for _fuck’s sake,_ how much more could the universe possibly throw at them today?

There’s an audible snap from the sensors as the mysterious Klingon vessel drops from warp several millions of kilometers from their position.

_Apparently a great deal._

Saru brings up a visual on the bridge’s viewscreen, and Philippa’s eyes widen, her jaw drops in horror, because this vessel is easily the biggest she has ever seen in her thirty years of service, in her fifty-five years of life _._ The ship’s body is long and dark, with no visible windows, embellishments, or anything indicating that the space is occupied by living beings. The thing looks like a massive hunk of rock carved directly out of a planet, gliding slowly through space like some sort of huge, menacing deep-sea creature.

She dimly registers Saru’s voice from behind her, but she doesn’t need him to confirm what she already knows.

The ship is on a direct trajectory for Earth.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Desperate Hours was pretty much useless in terms of characterization and actual Star Trek-y-ness, but I will say this, it did help me write my first in-universe space battle scene.
> 
> Edit: cleared up some stuff about the Klingon fleet numbers and their destruction as per Ginmur's review


	14. Fate

 

 

Michael Burnham sits limply on the bridge of T’Kuvma’s flagship. Her back is flush against the command console, her eyes are closed, her arms lay at her sides. She breathes weakly through swollen, damaged lungs.

Dead Klingons surround her still form.

Killing T’Kuvma had been an incredible feat, but it had left her alone on an enemy ship surrounded by Klingon warriors.

 _No_ …Michael corrects. _Not warriors._

The skeleton crew of the flagship had been scientists for the most part, technicians to run the wormhole device and the ship itself.

But they were still Klingons. And they still would have happily killed her in revenge for their fallen leader. Thus, Michael had done the only thing she could think to do, riding the furious high of the fight, desperately ill, wounded, and with T’Kuvma’s corpse cooling in front of her.

She used his DNA to log into the computer terminal in the ready-room, and with her administrator access, drained the atmosphere from the entirety of the ship, minus the room she was in.

 _Space is a terrifying way to die,_ Michael muses. _But a quick one._

This particular move would not have been possible for a Starfleet vessel’s operating system, Michael knows, and despite the brutality of her actions, she cannot help but feel grateful for the uniquely Klingon nature of this science vessel that she has lived on for over a full year.

At the very least, the majority of techs and scientists had left the vessel before the wormhole device’s first firing, lowering the death toll significantly. Michael does not know how many Klingons were in the skeleton crew. She does not want to know.

As she breathes slowly, steadily, Michael allows herself to consider the events of the past hour or so.

She still has no earthly idea how she had managed to overcome the Klingon leader, diverting her own execution to stab him with his own blade.

Michael shakes her head, because it should have been impossible. Lord T’Kuvma, a strong, powerful, _armed_ Klingon…and herself, Michael Burnham, weak, sick, and utterly Human.

Emotion had played a role of course, but that left out the significant point of _how_?

_How can a mere feeling act on its surroundings in such a way?_

Overcoming her Vulcan controls as if they were nothing at all, turning her rationality to dust, reducing her serenity to splinters, even as it powered her frail body with energy.

_Where on Earth had that energy come from?_

Scientifically, logically, it made no sense whatsoever.

Michael sighs wearily at the conundrum. Back to the old question once more, the maddening quandary, the one that had plagued her constantly during her last year of service aboard the _Shenzhou._

Love and logic…

Paradoxical concepts. Like gravity and space-time, the quantum mysteries of the universe…ever irreconcilable, perpetually unresolved.

 

 

The metallic whining of the proximity sensors cut through her musings. Tone and frequency serve as a form of language in Klingon starship operating systems, and Michael recognizes this particular one.

A Klingon ship is dropping from warp.

Her brow furrows in confusion, because that isn’t supposed to happen. Not today.

_It was meant to be cut-and-dry…wormhole the armada to Earth…and that’s it._

Michael gasps in pain as she claws herself up the console to gain a standing position. She toggles with the datascreen, bringing up visuals on the viewfinder.

What she sees is enough to make her jaw drop in utter horror.

A massive Klingon ship floats in distant space. Its dimensions are nearly inconceivable; fifteen kilometers long, two kilometers wide, far and away larger than the ramship that destroyed the _U.S.S. Europa_ over a year ago. Well over fifteen times the size of any Bird-of-Prey, and according to the dizzying energy readouts on the datascreen…

…filled to the brim with antimatter warheads.

The ship is a massive explosive.

The communications array beeps, and Michael limps to it. The ramship is hailing, of course it is. Michael’s face twists in confusion because there are _no life signs aboard…_

…but her mind jumps to the logical conclusion quickly enough, and she is unsurprised at what she sees when she opens the holographic message.

_Lord T’Kuvma._

Michael remembers watching as the life left the Klingon leader’s body. She recalls how his dark face went still, how the blood gushed from the wound she had dealt to his abdomen. Now his holographic form towers above her, proud, aggressive, and utterly unmarked, like a specter from beyond the grave.

Michael feels small standing beneath it.

“This message…is to serve as a _reminder…_ ” The dead Klingon leader grates out, “…that that T’Kuvma the Unforgettable will never be stopped _…_ even from beyond the shroud of death itself…”

_…death itself…_

_Had this ship been linked to T’Kuvma’s life signs?_

Michael’s face trembles at the sight of the Klingon she had killed less than an hour ago, his words striking her to the heart like physical blows.

“…The Klingon Empire will not be _defeated…_ we will never be _extinguished…_ our eternal flames will set your planet on _fire…_ ” T’Kuvma’s hologram snarls, baring his sharp, jagged teeth, “starting with your _Starfleet_ …We will destroy your den of lies, your nest of filth, and from there, your entire _world…_ ”

Michael’s jaw goes slack in horror at the brilliant move.

T’Kuvma was craftier than anyone realized, and had kept this final blow a total secret. A Detonator ship, filled with enough warheads to destroy the Earth entirely, to set the atmosphere on fire and raze it to the ground, should his original plan somehow fail.

As the hologram spews threats from above her, Michael considers the implications. Even at maximum warp, it would have taken a ship of this size months to get to Earth from Klingon space, and that was assuming the most direct path, which, during a war of this scale, there was no way it could have taken.

_This was set into motion long ago…_

She suddenly remembers her tense conversation with the Klingon messiah, four months previous aboard this very ship after the death of Lady L’Rell, his second in command.

_“L’Rell…a clever being, more so than I…taught me to always have a finishing move…”_

_An ace-in-the-hole_.

 

Had they planned this together?

 

“Remain _Klingon!_ ” T’Kuvma’s hologram slaps its chest in the classic Klingon salute, before winking out of existence.

 

…

 

Michael stands mute in front of the console. The viewscreen image has returned, and her dark eyes regard the sight of the Detonator ship gliding through deep space, towards Starfleet headquarters, towards _Earth_ and all eight billion souls presently living there.

She impassively takes in the readouts concerning those starships that had defended Earth, the _Discovery_ in particular. The vessels are down for the count, all of them, that much is obvious from the scans. No warp, no weapons systems, no impulse engines.

_This ship is the only ship in the entire system with power._

The command console hums beneath Michael’s dark hands, electricity pumped via complex internal circuitry from the antimatter cells down in the Klingon equivalent of an engineering room, maintaining the lives of the ship’s systems like a steady, pulsing heartbeat.

With all of her Vulcan calm, Michael quickly scans through the possibilities.

A frontal attack is no good, she realizes this immediately. This ship is technically a science vessel, its weapon systems all but insignificant, not to mention the massive deflector shield readings the sensors are picking up. Michael doubts that even twenty ships hammering the heavy shielding of this ramship would do any type of real damage.

_But a simple, straight out charge?_

_A direct collision?_

The Klingon techs had spent nearly a week installing the shield-slicing overlay into this vessel’s deflector shield array, Michael had seen them hard at work during her daily walk-shuffles. This had confused her at the time, but in retrospect, it made sense that T’Kuvma would want his chosen flagship to have the best in his custom war technology.

This ship can penetrate the Detonator shields.

 _Her_ ship can stop the inevitable.

Michael’s hands move of their own accord across the Klingon controls, and she methodically enters a new course into the data screen, where it will be transmitted to the impulse engines, causing them to fire and change the course of the flagship.

And the flagship will change the course of fate itself.

It will impact the Detonator ship, setting it off in space and destroying it before it can breach Earth’s atmosphere, and the planet, the _Discovery_ , everyone, will be saved.

As Michael works, she feels a brief twinge of satisfaction, of pride, of _triumph_.

T’Kuvma had thought of everything.

But he had never anticipated Commander Michael Burnham of the _U.S.S. Shenzhou._

Michael’s jaw sets, her lips flatten into a line, her back straightens in resolve. She takes in a deep, rasping breath through aching lungs, and turns her head to take in her dim reflection in the windows of the bridge.

Her Starfleet uniform is intact at least, well cared for and protected over these many long months. Though the jacket is covered in blood spatters, T’Kuvma’s and her own, Michael is pleased that she will be able to die as she lived, in this uniform that has come to mean so very much to her. But aside from her passable clothing, her skin is sallow, her wild coily hair passes her shoulders, and dried blood crusts her face.

She looks every bit the prisoner she is, save for the look in her eyes _…_

Steel.

 

Strength.

Michael nods once in satisfaction at the woman looking back at her. She peers out of the paneled windows of the bridge, regarding the distant stars with a pensive expression. As she studies the quiet mysteries of the cosmos, Michael considers the poetic beauty of what is about to happen, this mutually assured destruction of both the wormhole device and T’Kuvma’s Detonator in one fell swoop.

_Not to mention…myself…_

As the creator and innovator of the machine that slashes holes in reality and threatens to rip space-time apart every time it does so, Michael’s death will annihilate the horrific wormhole device from the universe, permanently and forever.

_Ending the war, saving Earth, saving the Alpha Quadrant, perhaps even saving existence itself…_

Joy bubbles up in her chest like a spring. Tears well in Michael’s sunken eyes, and she would smile openly if she had the strength because she is grateful, so intensely _grateful_ at the honorable death that the universe has seen fit to grant her, even after all of her dishonorable actions.

After today, she will never again be called _Maghwl’_ _Burn-ham_ , the traitor, the mutineer, the murderer.

She will be Michael Burnham.

 

The woman who beat the Klingons.

 

_I truly could not have asked for more._

Michael blinks at the thought, which she realizes after a moment of reflection, is not quite accurate.

There is one more thing she can think to do before she dies in the impact with the Detonator.

Her fingers dart over the communication array, greatly weakened in the construction of the wormhole device, but not totally nonfunctional. She presses buttons and enters numbers in Klingon script, and with great care and reverence, Michael opens a channel to the only ship in the system with a Starfleet comm signature.

The _U.S.S. Discovery._

She breathes a quick sigh of relief when her hail is answered almost immediately, and her heart skips a beat in her chest at the possibility of just _who_ she might see at the other end of the transmission. The holo-emitters buzz, the space in front of her flickers and flares, before finally forming the most perfect image that Michael could have ever conceived of for the minutes before her death.

 

She and Philippa Georgiou stare at each other in silence, both momentarily stunned by the sight before them.

 

 _By the stars and galaxies above,_ Michael has missed that beautiful face. She drinks it in hungrily, taking in features that she had very nearly forgotten while sick and dying in Klingon custody. Those dark eyes, stunning high cheekbones, dark, glossy hair cascading over slim shoulders…Michael feels tingling warmth spread slowly from her core to her fingertips, and the corners of her mouth twitch as if attempting a smile.

It is a valiant attempt, but Michael’s body is too weak and exhausted to quite pull it off.

“I am glad to see you in one piece, Michael.” Philippa finally murmurs, and the throaty clip of her Malaysian accent tugs at Michael’s heartstrings. The captain’s voice is shaky, her lips barely forming the words. “How…is this _possible_ , you being on a ship full of Klingons-“

“I killed them.” Michael’s statement is soft, her face devoid of emotion. She feels neither grief nor shame at her actions, which were done in desperation to stay alive. “I drained the atmosphere from the ship…before they could react…and I killed them all.”

She worries for one brief moment that her captain will be horrified at her actions, at her blatant disregard for the lives of others, but Philippa only nods once in satisfaction.

“If this saved your life, then I am glad you did.”

Michael blinks at the words, truly astonishing coming from the woman who once told her that Starfleet does not fire first, nor take innocent lives. Period.

_A lot can change in a year._

“And you, Captain…” Michael’s eyes flick towards the readouts at the command console. She has several more minutes before impact; time enough to not rush this final conversation. “I am happy you are well…that the _Discovery_ made out in one piece…”

Saru squeezes his way into the hologram feed, and Philippa allows him to do so without a fight. “Yes, and our coming out in one piece is thanks to your actions, I presume?”

Michael takes in the Kelpien man and catalogues her emotional reaction to his appearance. She is surprised to find that she is happy to see him as well, that she genuinely missed his mellow voice and occasional awkward demeanor.

“It was.” Michael nods in confirmation, no outward hint of joy or shame in her expression, save for the proud glow in her dark eyes.

“Well thank goodness you managed to overcome T’Kuvma, in that case.” Saru states in his typical solemn tone, and Michael stares at him, her brow furrowing in obvious confusion.

Saru cocks his head at her reaction, and Philippa looks bewildered by it as well. She looks askance at Michael as she asks her question. “You…fought T’Kuvma so that you could fire the wormhole device for a second time, yes?”

“No…” She shakes her head. “The device was pre-programmed, it would have fired no matter what I did.”

“ _What?_ ” The statement comes from Philippa and Saru simultaneously; Philippa’s exclamation is a low breath of astonishment, where Saru’s is closer to a yelp.

“I hid a destruction sequence in the programming over one month ago…” Michael states, and her face goes slack as she looks away in confusion. “…Two months ago?”

Time had little meaning aboard the Klingon science vessel, and she cannot accurately date the actions that led to today’s victory. She shakes her head to clear her thoughts, and continues. “A failsafe…I programmed it to kick in once the wormhole device had fully recharged from its initial burst of energy usage.”

“Naturally, before would have been preferable,” Michael adds. “But the initial firing was the only one that the Klingons cared about, they checked the programming constantly, I wouldn’t have had a chance. Barely managed it as it was.” She shakes her head with an ounce of remorse. “And I never did have time to figure out how to make the device re-open the doors on itself.”

_A blessing in disguise, as it turns out._

Michael looks now at the stunned faces of her former captain and fellow crewmate, and a proud smile creeps, quite unintentionally, across her lips. The movement feels foreign, not to mention it physically _hurts,_ and realization dawns on her that she hasn’t smiled genuinely in…in…

The numbers fail her.

“I did not think the Klingons would keep me alive once the device was complete. It would have been illogical…downright _idiotic,_ to not put the failsafe on an automatic trigger.”

“That’s why you needed Starfleet to respond…” Philippa breathes, and Michael nods in confirmation.

“I just needed to buy time while the device recharged.” Michael’s brow furrows in confusion. “I knew that the response would not be strong, but…surely Starfleet could have spared a handful of ships?”

Philippa’s mouth twists. “They could have, yes.”

Michael blinks, but reads the bitter fury on her captain’s face easily, and the implication becomes clear.

 _I never planned for that_.

Then again, Michael allows, if she had…then she likely would have proceeded with her original plan to take her own life before the Klingons could do so, and T’Kuvma would have watched his armada’s destruction at the hands of the wormhole device.

There is no doubt in Michael’s mind that the Klingon leader would have summoned his final blow at that point, even if he had to martyr himself to do it.

 _Especially_ if he had to martyr himself to do it.

In acknowledgement of this logical conclusion, and of her captain’s statement, Michael only shrugs.

“Seems to have worked out, regardless.”

Saru’s holographic form shakes his head from where he towers above both Michael and Philippa.

“But Burnham…” Saru’s confusion is evident in his tone. “If the failsafe was automatic, why fight at all?”

Philippa shoots him a withering look, Saru jerks his head away to stare at the ground, abashed, and the entire interaction is so textbook, so utterly _them_ , that Michael wants to laugh.

By all the Gods and galaxies above _,_ she’s missed them both desperately.

In response to the question, she gazes at her captain’s incredible face, taking a deep, soothing, blessedly un-rattling breath.

There are several reasons that Michael Burnham had fought so wildly in the face of almost certain death, all of them important, but only one of them critical. The answer, when it comes, is directed at Philippa Georgiou alone.

“I saw your face…” Michael murmurs tiredly, remembering the clarity of that moment, the overwhelming, inspiring beauty that made her realize that she had to get up off the ground and _fight_.

“Decided…. I didn’t want to die again…”

She sees, rather than hears, Philippa’s shaky breath at the admission.

“Interesting words, from the woman who has programmed her ship on a collision course with that Klingon bomber!” Saru’s voice is accusatory in the extreme, and Philippa jerks her head to stare at him in shock. She then whips back around to level a pleading expression at Michael, all but begging her to deny it.

“I can see no other way to stop it, Saru,” Michael counters matter-of-factly. “Can you?”

Saru’s mouth opens and closes, Philippa’s dark eyes dart back and forth while they flick desperately through their options, but Michael begins to speak before she can get very far.

“The _Discovery_ is disabled, that much is clear from my scanners, and even if you were not, you could not break through the shields on that Detonator--” she wheezes in a quick breath. “--the signature overlay suggests multiple layers with no weaknesses to speak of.”

“And _your_ ship will somehow break through?” Philippa demands sardonically.

“Yes.” Michael confirms. “T’Kuvma equipped his flagships with shield-slicers of his own design. As long as my shields are up, I can slide through the Detonator’s shields like water.”

Philippa’s face trembles, she shakes her head in denial; Michael’s fate is finally dawning on her, and she is clearly horrified by it. Even Saru’s green eyes are wide with dismay.

“This is what needs to happen,” Michael murmurs gently, trying to comfort her friends during her last moments. “T’Kuvma’s ship will impact and take the Detonator with it, and Earth will be safe.”

“And you will be dead, _again_ , Michael!” Philippa exclaims angrily, referencing her protégée’s previous statement with biting sarcasm.

Michael can’t help the hysterical laugh that bubbles up from her chest. “Two birds, one stone.”

“Don’t say that!” Philippa snaps, her voice only a little bit ragged.

“The knowledge of the wormhole device will die with me, Captain!” Michael insists. “This horrible thing will be gone without a trace!”

“Do you think I give a damn about the device?!” The captain chops her arm angrily. “What is wrong with you, we are trying to save _you_ , Michael!”

“We could beam you out!” Saru insists.

“No,“ Michael denies. “The shields have to stay up, like I said, that’s the only way the ship will get through the shields on the Detonator.”

“A ship the size of yours _could_ make it through without the slicer overlay—“ Saru insists, but his emphasis on the “could” indicates mere possibility, rather than certainty. Michael shakes her head.

“Would you take that risk, Saru, with eight billion lives at stake?”

“There must be another way, we’ll find it!” Philippa’s voice is on the lower end of desperate. Michael has only heard it on the higher end twice in her life.

She’d been close to death on both of those occasions.

“No…” Michael murmurs. Her face relaxes, her features becoming smooth with serenity. “This is the only way. And I’m glad of it.”

The heartbreak on Philippa’s face would have broken Michael’s heart as well, had her heart not hardened into a lump of stone inside of her chest a long time ago.

Michael closes her eyes and sighs, because she has fought so damn _hard,_ this entire year, for this mission. She’d chained herself to her conviction and held on through broken bones, lung infections, and sheer, mind-sucking terror. With the shame of a failed mutiny upon her shoulders, the grief of an impossible love hanging over her like a shroud, Michael Burnham had worked herself practically to death to reverse her past decisions, to save everyone she’d meant to save…

…and today, her vision became reality.

And now she can finally _rest._

“Saru…I never considered you an enemy. A worthy opponent, certainly, and at times, even a friend.”

The Kelpien man blinks slowly, and his eyes appear moist.

“Give Sarek and Amanda my thanks, for taking me in and raising me as their own. I am so grateful to them, for their care and their kindness. And tell Spock…I’m proud of him, I’ve always believed in him, and I know he’s going to do great things…”

Michael blinks, sighs, and some of her Vulcan poise collapses.

“And Captain Georgiou…”

Saru retreats from the hologram without a word, and Michael’s voice drops to something close to a whisper.

“… _Philippa…”_

The woman in question gazes at her protégée like she holds the stars in the palms of her hands.

“I am so sorry for my actions at the binary stars. I attacked you, I _betrayed_ you…” Philippa is shaking her head in silent denial, but Michael presses onward. “After all we’ve been through…you deserved far more from me.”

It’s been so long since that day. So damn long since she set the booted foot of her EV suit onto that Klingon beacon, killed a Klingon soldier, and started a war. Over a lifetime since her captain dismissed her counsel, and she’d knocked the woman out and attempted a mutiny.

Michael does not know who was right and who was wrong, if either of them ever were.

But it doesn’t seem to matter very much now. The issue slips from Michael’s mind like a leaf carried away by a mild breeze, and she lets it go without a fight.

There are unresolved topics between her and the captain that are far more important.

“The seven years I spent on your ship were some of the best years of my life. It was…the happiest I have ever been.” Michael’s voice trembles, and she manages a weak smile despite the massive cut slashing her lips. From over two hundred thousand kilometers away, Philippa returns the smile. It’s watery, barely keeping back the tears in her eyes, but it’s genuine.

Michael cannot help but reflect on just how lucky she is, that Philippa Georgiou’s smile is one of the last things she’ll ever see.

“Thank you for giving me the chance to serve,” she continues quickly, for they are running out of time, “for inspiring me…for showing me how to be human without losing my Vulcan past…for…” Swallowing now, Michael continues in a softer voice. “…for showing me what it means to love…”

_Love…_

Michael’s chest might burst from that very emotion. She feels it swell inside of her like the water from that dried-up well back on the Crepusculan desert planet, the well that Georgiou had shot phaser bolts into until it roared back to life.

The situational metaphor makes her want to laugh and cry at the same time.

The scientist-section of her brain wonders if the overcrowding of her thoracic cavity by the presence of such undiluted emotion could stop her heart, compress her lungs until they collapse.

Michael wonders if she might die right then and there, before T’Kuvma’s flagship even makes impact.

_There couldn’t possibly be a better way to go._

 

*          *

 

*          *

 

 

_Of all the ways I thought this day would end, this was not one of them._

Philippa Georgiou stares at the hologram in front of her, drinking in the sight with everything she has. The captain does not possess an eidetic memory, not like Michael does, but she swears she will do everything in her power to remember this moment, this _woman_ , close enough to touch and yet so, so far away.

Michael Burnham stands before her, her form glowing ever so slightly from the holo-imaging device. The past year is evident in her appearance. Her face is gaunt, her skin pale and sallow, but this only serves to bring her dark, brilliant eyes into stark relief. Michael’s once straightened hair is curly now, tight coils passing her shoulders, framing the planes of her beautiful face like a halo.

 _It becomes her,_ Philippa notes dimly, and her hand twitches at her side, as if to reach up and press into the cascading ringlets.

She swallows harshly, forcing back the urge to drop to her knees.

“Oh _Michael_ …” Philippa can barely manage to say the name. She shakes her head sadly at her protégée, who somehow, after all this agonizing time, still carries the weight of the Battle at the Binary Stars on her narrow shoulders. “You have _nothing_ to apologize for, nothing at all.”

Michael’s jaw goes slack.

“You acted with courage and conviction to save the lives of the crew…I understand why you did it…”

And Philippa does understand. After the past year of war, after her own recent row with Starfleet command, she understands all too well.

“I forgave you a very long time ago,” Philippa finishes, and the exact moment plays in her memory like a holo.

_\--T’Kuvma’s hand gripping Michael’s shoulder from behind, his blade stabbing her clean through—_

_\--phaser dropping from a limp hand—_

_\--Michael’s empty, vacant gaze as she dangles from T’Kuvma’s mek’leth—_

“Twelve months, twelve days…”

Michael gasps a little, and Philippa cannot help but wonder how it could possibly be such a surprise to hear this.

_How much has she tortured herself over that day?_

“You must know that I am proud of you, Michael,” the captain continues, quite willing to put the past behind them. “So _damn_ proud.”

Philippa cannot help herself from smiling now, even as her lips tremble, because for _God’s sake_ , her protégée had taken out an entire Klingon war armada singlehandedly, and she’d done it from captivity.

Her brilliant, brave commander…her wonderful, beautiful friend…

If they weren’t separated by starship wreckage and leagues of cold, empty space, Philippa would probably be taking the woman in her arms and kissing her senseless right now.

The thought sends a devastating pang through her chest, lancing her heart with cruel conviction. Philippa clenches her fists against the pain, because this situation carries an almost cosmic level of tragedy.

A galactic war ended, an entire planet saved, all by the ingenuity and strength of one woman…a prisoner of war whose brilliant mind took down the Klingon Empire, a captive whose single-minded ferocity felled their glorious leader…

A hero _,_ who will go to her death alone on an enemy ship.

Gritting her teeth now, Philippa fights back the urge to howl at how bitterly unfair it is.

“You should have had so much more than this…”

“This?” Michael gives a soft shake her head, thick curls bouncing with the motion. “This is the best I could have hoped for. The most honorable, perfect ending I could have ever been granted…” She smiles gently now. “I even get to talk to _you_ …before I…”

Her voice trails off. 

_She's talking like a Klingon..._

Philippa's eyes well even further, reducing Michael to a vague, watery outline.

The captain knows that she is in the middle of the bridge of a Federation starship and surrounded by various subordinates, but the thought of wasting precious minutes to divert this call to her ready room seems intensely, unbearably selfish.

Philippa Georgiou refuses to do such a thing, certainly not in the wake of her protégée’s staggering courage.

_One more chance to do right by her…_

 

“Michael, I love you.”

 

On the bridge of the Klingon flagship, Michael Burnham’s jaw goes slack.

Bitterness erupts from Philippa’s chest. She wonders how in the hell she’s managed to fuck up this situation so entirely.

_The first time I tell her I love her, and it’s because she’s going to her death._

The captain could scream from the injustice of it all.

“I am such a _coward_ for doing this now, when there is no choice left to me,” she continues, pain lancing her every syllable. Michael shakes her head in denial, but Philippa cuts her off. “No, it’s true, I wasted the time we had, I hesitated when I should have _acted_ -“

Philippa is transported back to _that_ day on _that_ ship, when Starfleet protocol and best-laid plans had stayed her trigger finger, and the woman she loved had been gutted as result.

A tear rolls unbidden down her cheek.

“ _You deserved so much more, my love_.”

The words come out in a whisper, and Philippa is genuinely uncertain as to where the endearment had come from.

But to hell with it, if this is to be the last conversation she will have with Michael Burnham in this lifetime, the last chance she has to call the woman she loves such a term, she is damn well going to do it.

“In spite of what I did…?” Michael manages in a shaking voice, pain and disbelief clear on her face.

This could mean any number of things, from her mutiny to her actions in working with the Klingons, from the universe-rending wormhole device to it’s deadly, destructive failsafe.

Philippa smiles, because her answer, for all of these, is the same.

“ _Because_ of what you did, Michael.”

Michael’s face goes slack, her dark eyes wide and shimmering. She looks equal parts dazzled and bewildered, and Philippa can’t help her weak chuckle. The eternal mysteries of time and space were nothing to Michael Burnham, but apparently this concept is proving too much for her to handle.

Philippa feels both intensely proud and humbled beyond belief.

The combination might just stop her heart.

“It’s funny,” she finally manages, her voice shaking. “For all that you say I showed you how to be human, it was _you_ who showed me, in the end.” Philippa thanks her Gods, wherever they may be, for giving her the right words to say, at this moment when she truly needed them. “You are the very best of what humanity has to offer…you inspire _me_ , Michael Burnham.”

Michael gapes at the words, and Philippa heart skips several beats at the expression, so open and vulnerable and _beautiful_. This time her hand does spring up, before she can manage to stop it.

Philippa’s fingertips tremble as they reach out to Michael’s cheek, and Michael’s own hand comes up slowly, slowly, as if to hold them there. For a brief, insane moment, Philippa could swear she brushes against something solid, something warm and soft and _Human_.

But in the next second, her hand scatters the holo-image, refracting the magnetic containment field and flaring Michael’s projected image into sharp static. Philippa flinches away immediately, withdrawing her hand as if burned.

She doesn’t miss the way Michael’s hand touches the side of her own face where Philippa’s fingers had just been, as if to hold onto to whatever small scrap of Human contact she possibly can.

At this, Philippa’s heart finally shatters.

She feels it just as she felt it in the brig of the _Kerala_ twelve months and twelve days ago, the shredding, the _rending_ , and the captain knows that she would rather feel the universe rip apart once more, every minute from now until the end of time, than feel this particular pain for even one more brutal moment.

Nevertheless, Philippa grits her teeth against the agony, gathers every scrap of her strength, and presses on.

“I am so sorry it’s taken me so long…so _sorry_ …” She tries desperately to keep her voice steady, the words she’s saying are too important to end up garbled somewhere in the kilometers of space between them, “…but I do love you, Michael…”

God help her, of all the results that Philippa had imagined for this love, of all of the end results, triumphant or tragic, heartening or humiliating, she could never have pictured anything close to this.

That _this_ should be their fate…one final conversation after full year apart, after a full year of war and suffering and missing her every damn day…

Philippa’s mouth works bitterly, because after all of that agony, she doesn’t even get the simple pleasure of _touching_ Michael, of holding her close and telling her everything she should have told her, one last time, before her brilliant life draws to a close.

Gods, there is so _much_ that Philippa wants to tell her.

Michael, for her part, seems to be swaying where she stands, her holographic form tilting ever so slightly. Awe and wonder flicker across her gaunt, beautiful face, laying her features wide open. Philippa has never seen this particular expression on her protégée, her friend, not once in seven years.

It’s a stunning look for her.

“…so much it might kill me…” The fragments in her chest turn sharp, biting, but Philippa fights the pain with all of her might, because Michael has to understand this, she _has_ to. If Philippa cannot save her, then at the very least, she will ensure that Michael dies knowing how precious, how cherished, how utterly loved she is.

Gods be good, if only she could have lived with the knowledge.

“I love you, Michael…I promise I do.”

From her place in the belly of a Klingon warship, covered in dried blood and bruises, Michael Burnham stares at her captain, dark eyes wide and trembling with emotion…

…and in the next second, the transmission cuts out, leaving Philippa Georgiou with a view of the wreckage from the battle for Earth, and beyond that, the cold, unfeeling stars.

 

 

 


	15. Universal Forces

 

_“I do love you, Michael. I promise I do.”_

The words impact Michael somewhere deep inside her core, a place she didn’t even know existed until this very moment. Something inside her, some strut or support column, wobbles like it’s about to give way. The world goes silent, and for the first time in over twelve months, Michael feels an absence of pain.

The physical, mental, and emotional agony that she has lived with every day since her attempted mutiny is _gone_.

For one brief, glorious moment, Michael Burnham allows herself to fully live in this wonderful new reality where Philippa Georgiou _loves her back_.

. . .

And in the next moment, her brain roars to life.

She cuts the transmission, Philippa’s astonished face winking out in an instant, and races from the bridge like the entire Klingon armada is on her heels.

Down five levels of warship, leaping and sidestepping the bodies of Klingons asphyxiated in her revolt. Her trashed lungs hardly slow her down, because this might be the most important mission she’s ever had, the most vital thing she’s ever _done…_

Finally, finally, Michael reaches the science deck, and skids to a stop in front of her massive, hulking creation.

The wormhole device that tears holes in reality itself.

T’Kuvma’s ship is weak right now after two consecutive firings of the machine, with what remaining power it has going to the thrusters, but Michael is more concerned about a particular weakness of the machine itself, the only real weakness that the device has.

The theoretical quantum physics behind the space-time anomaly came easily enough to Michael once she really, truly reflected and meditated upon them, but the one aspect she had never attempted to reconcile within her calculations was gravity.

Namely, how to make the device function within the gravitational field typically created by planets.

There _was_ a reason that she had materialized the Klingon fleet at such a great distance from Earth, after all. The disruption caused by the planet’s gravity well was simply not one that she had equipped the prototype to handle.

 _Then again,_ Michael acknowledges, _I never had the necessary inputs to work with._

A year aboard the Klingon science vessel and they had never so much as approached a stellar body with enough mass to exert a gravitational pull.

Michael’s eyes scan the readouts, darting over figures and data at practically warp speed. T’Kuvma’s flagship is in Earth’s gravitational field now, not very far, but far enough to throw off all of the readings _._

She’s going to have to recalculate everything.

Under ordinary parameters, i.e. the mass of an entire starship and the distance of almost two quadrants, _and_ under a time crunch like this, it would be straight up impossible. Michael wouldn’t even try. She would be up on the bridge right now, spending her final minutes talking to Philippa and pretending not to notice the Detonator ship growing ever closer through the flagship’s paneled windows.

However…

_However…_

Michael is operating under far-less-than-ordinary parameters. Parameters that she’d never even contemplated, because the idea was simply too far-fetched, too outlandish, too _crazy…_

The mass of a single human…

…the distance of one hundred seventeen thousand and forty-six point seven kilometers…, forty-six point eight, forty-six point nine, forty-seven point zero, and so on…

It’s completely theoretical at this point. The actual probability of hitting a target with a comparatively infinitesimal, presently in-motion mass from within the gravity well of an M-class planet is small, _miniscule_ , even…

…but the chance is there, and Michael will be damned if she doesn’t take it.

_Never had the necessary inputs…_

Her fingers fly over the modified keyboard, the Klingon figures now as familiar to her as Standard letters, and the calculations flow like water. The wormhole device takes up almost the entire science deck, and the overhead panel lights dim to half-strength as the massive machine whirs to life.

_Only had half of the facts…_

Two hundred thousand kilometers is nothing at all, nothing whatsoever in the realm of the four-dimensional, even with gravity to contend with _._

No distance is too great, no ship too far.

_Gravity and space-time…_

Nothing, _nothing_ is out of reach.

_Love and logic…_

“Come on, come on, _come on…_ ” Michael’s eidetic memory recalls the _Discovery_ ’s exact coordinates in Earth space, pulled from the main terminal on the bridge, and she feeds them into the computer with ease while willing her creation to stay alive, to take however much power it needs to combat the gravity well… _._

It’s not going to be enough.

Michael’s hands whip sideways on the Klingon data-screen, and she dives into the mainframe of T’Kuvma’s ship and starts rerouting what little power there is left.

She won’t touch the rear thrusters, but everything else is fair game.

_How can a mere feeling possibly act on its surroundings in such a way?_

Noncritical systems…power to the bridge, power to all decks aside from Deck Five, atmospheric control, thermo-regulation, surface lighting…

_I was going about it all wrong…_

Michael bites her lip as she works, taking and taking from this ship that has taken so much from her, and she won’t act like she doesn’t feel a surge of vindictive pleasure from watching various systems shut down to feed this machine that _she_ created.

… _wrong parameters…wrong start values…only half of the facts…_

The hum grows louder. Michael can feel the percussion under her feet, and between the coils in the center of the room comes the strange feeling of _wrongness,_ like something inside her is twisting inside out.

_Could one ever apply Surak’s Principles to electromagnetism?_

Michael enters the last sequence into the computer, and the wormhole device groans. The smell of ozone permeates the air, a stench that Michael equates with the wormhole device burning a hole in the fabric of the universe.

_Could one ever reason with gravity?_

The air between the coils ripples and ripples like something is trying to break free and _fuck,_ Michael starts swearing a blue streak in a mix of Standard and Klingon, because she’s mere tens of kilometers away from the Detonator ship and somehow there’s still not enough power _-_

_Love is not a feeling._

Clarity bursts in Michael’s mind like a sunburst, and suddenly, it all falls into place.

_Love…is a force._

Eyes wide, she delivers a swift, sharp kick to the terminal stand-

And the wormhole bursts open.

The portal is tiny, barely two feet by two feet, but Michael can see the bridge of a starship through it. She’s never seen this particular bridge before, but she is familiar enough with Starfleet architecture after her seven years of service aboard the _Shenzhou_ to know that this is right.

It’s a side-view, just left of the captain’s chair and a few feet in front, and Michael laughs out loud, because somehow, all of her rapid, crazed, flying-by-the-seat-of-her-pants calculations have put her within five feet of her projected target.

She cracks her neck and squares her shoulders in determination, feeling more like herself than she has in over a year.

“I’ll take it.”

There is no telling what passing through this wormhole will do to her unprotected mind and body. None whatsoever.

But Michael is going find out.

The former first officer vaults the science array and all but flies toward the window. Her legs pump forward and backwards and her arms take up the position of a sprinter, hands shaping themselves into spears of their own volition.

Somewhere far in the distance, she hears the shrieking of metal-on-metal, the groan of collapsing struts and girders.

Stellar explosions.

Michael is fifteen feet from the tesseract…

Ten feet…

Five feet…

She leaps headlong into the wormhole as the world explodes behind her.

 

 


	16. Celestial Bodies

 

 

Philippa Georgiou is too stunned to cry.

Instead, she backs away from the holo-emitters to sit numbly in the captain’s chair. The bridge is silent after her and Michael’s heartfelt goodbyes, but the captain picks up on a few sniffles here and there.

There are tears rolling down Keyla Detmer’s face.

She shouldn’t be so surprised. After all, it’s not like her crew doesn’t have loved ones.

Loved ones that perhaps they too, lost to tragedy.

 _We may be Starfleet officers,_ Philippa considers with a hint of bitterness, _but after the past twelve months, we are soldiers as well._

A shadow falls over her, and the captain looks up into the face of her Kelpien First Officer.

Saru’s throat sacs tremble, and his eyes are moist. Kelpiens as a species don’t cry, but Philippa supposes that anyone can pick up a few habits after serving so many years with an alien crew.

The commander kneels down beside the captain’s chair, and their hands seem to slide into each other of their own volition.

Calming slightly at the firm pressure of Saru’s much-larger hand, Philippa watches the trajectory of T’Kuvma’s flagship towards the Detonator. One of the crew has brought up visuals onto the viewscreen, both ships approaching each other in the void of space.

_Why on Earth did the transmission cut out?_

Philippa’s thoughts are sluggish with grief, smothered by shock; possibilities swim in the corners of her mind, too far away to see or study with any sort of seriousness.

Not that Philippa particularly wants to study them. Not now.

 

Not now.

The seconds tic by. Philippa feels like a block of ice, like a piece of metal so cold a single touch will shatter it. She can fall apart later, she _will_ fall apart later, sometime in the not-so-distant future when she is alone and her crew is safe, but for now, she and Saru hold on tighter to each other as the distance between the two ships drops into the hundreds of kilometers-

The air on the bridge crackles.

The room takes on the distinct smell of ozone.

Owosekun and Detmer exchange confused looks, and Philippa feels the strands of her long hair stand up from static electricity. She and Saru glance at each other in alarm, both stand up immediately-

-Just in time to witness a _hole_ open in the space on the bridge, a few feet in front of the Captain’s chair, and a little to the left.

Perhaps one meter off of the ground.

From somewhere far away from herself, she sees Detmer gape in astonishment, Owosekun shrink back against her console, she hears Saru’s throat pouches click at the horrific sensation, at the universe tearing at the seams only meters in front of them. Water clogs Philippa’s lungs, her entire body feels like a nail run down a chalkboard, and the gutting feeling only intensifies as she stares at the floating aberration.

Philippa shakes her head slowly in denial. “ _No_ …”

This cannot be happening. There is no way this is actually happening, no utter _way_ , this is a cruel joke by the universe, a hallucination caused by her grieving brain, to hope now would surely collapse the wormhole where it floats in midair-

Her thoughts are cut short when Former First Officer Michael Burnham flies through the opening like a drunkard tossed through the doorway of a bar.

The outline of her body seems to disintegrate in the not-quite-right dimensions of the hole, reforming in a split second as the aberration all but spits her out.

She hits the floor hard, tumbling several times with the impact, and the portal closes behind her.

Philippa hears the beep of the trajectory display indicating impact of T’Kuvma’s command vessel and the Detonator ship, and the resulting explosion is so massive it’s visible from where she stands, hundreds of thousands of kilometers away aboard the _U.S.S. Discovery_. The bright orange light from the fire and flames dances across the bridge like shadows at a bonfire, illuminating the captain’s pale skin and dark eyes.

With dim levels of comprehension, Philippa understands that the Detonator is destroyed, that Earth and all of its inhabitants are safe…

…but she can’t take her eyes off of the woman on the ground in front of her, who rolls onto her back gasping like she’s just run a marathon. Her eyes are wide and trembling, and her entire body shakes like a leaf, hand coming to her chest as if to verify the existence of her own corporeal form.

“ _Wow…_ ”

The single gasped word is all it takes.

Dropping to her knees, Philippa reaches out a surprisingly steady hand and clasps Michael Burnham’s shoulder.

It’s solid.

Philippa’s jaw falls open.

Michael responds to the touch by sliding her hand up Philippa’s arm, wide-eyed and clutching like it’s the only thing holding her in place, and before the captain knows it the woman is wrapped around her, squeezing her body so tightly, but somehow not tightly enough.

All Philippa can do is hold her back, her arms coming up robotically to wrap around Michael’s form.

This can’t be happening.

Michael drops her head into Philippa’s neck. Her body slumps forward, and the captain feels the full, solid weight of Michael Burnham pressing into her.

 

This…

 

…this _can’t—_

Philippa’s heart suddenly staggers. Her limbs turn to jelly, her lungs forget how to breathe, the bridge spins as her brain misfires, and one terrifying moment, the captain feels like her body might finally be giving out on her.

But in the next second, her lungs inflate, her spine realigns, and her heart, her mangled, _shattered_ heart reconstructs with a flaming, fiery vengeance, hot enough to hurt, bright enough to burn, but _Gods_ , what a brilliant, wonderful pain.

Philippa clings to Michael Burnham’s thin, battered frame like it’s the most precious thing she has ever held in her life (which upon further reflection, is the absolute truth). Her hand reaches to clasp the back of Michael’s collar in a subconscious attempt to anchor her, bind her, prevent her from once more going somewhere Philippa cannot follow. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, Philippa buries her head on Michael’s shoulder and basks in the warm, wonderful, feeling of Michael’s arms around her.

“ _I love you too._ ”

Michael’s murmur is soft, pressed into the skin of her neck like the best kind of secret, and Philippa thinks that the stars themselves could never feel as radiant as she does now, wrapped in the arms of the woman she loves.

She feels restored.

She feels downright _celestial._

With Michael Burnham safe in her embrace, here on the Discovery, firmly in the world of the living, all memory of the horrible, bloody, grief-filled year falls away.

 

It’s just the two of them. _Together._

Philippa has no idea what just happened. None whatsoever. And she has some vague notion that she should probably ask about it later, maybe write some type of report, there’s usually paperwork involved with space-time anomalies of this nature after all-

But her shaking hands reach for Michael’s face of their own volition, thumbs brushing over far-too-prominent cheekbones, and she pulls the former First Officer back slightly to take in her features.

With her sickly pallor, bruised cheek, cut over her lip, and deep, dark circles under her eyes, Michael Burnham is heartbreakingly beautiful.

Through the burning, wonderful pain in her chest, the stinging in her eyes, a sudden thought occurs to her, and Philippa manages to choke, “I swear to _God_ if this was part of some plan-“

“Couldn’t have planned this if I tried,” Michael mumbles, still looking utterly dazed by whatever the hell she had just done.

And somehow, Michael’s lips are meeting her own, and they are chapped and dry and bitten to all-hell, but it’s the most perfect kiss of Philippa Georgiou’s entire life.

Moments pass like dreams. Whole hours could have come and gone without notice, or perhaps several glowing days, but finally, Philippa is pulled out of her kiss-fueled haze by loud applause, cheering, and if she’s not mistaken, the classic sound of money being exchanged.

She whips her head around to catch Commander Saru and Lieutenant Detmer looking away from each other in a frankly pathetic attempt to appear innocent. Philippa manages a weak glare, and her Kelpien First Officer raises his hands defensively.

There’s a wad of credits sandwiched between his fingers.

“She may have been officially dead for twelve months, Captain, but Lieutenant Detmer has stated many times over the years that _“a bet is a bet,”_ and I would be remiss in my duties if I did not follow Starfleet protocol concerning respect for the norms of other cultures.”

Whatever admonishments Philippa has prepared die in her throat when she hears her Vulcan raised, no-nonsense protégée let out an honest-to-God _giggle_ , mouth curling up into a wide, beaming smile that splits the cut on her lip open again.

Philippa is swooning, she knows she is, but she can’t stop herself from doing it, especially not when Michael's head drops to rest against her chest, coily hair tickling her chin.

“Saru betting on _us_ …” she murmurs in that soft, mellow tone that Philippa missed so _damn much-_

“…now _that_ might rip some holes in the fabric of the universe, don’t you think?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing is so fun, I highly recommend. 
> 
> Sorry I didn't answer like, any comments, I just didn't want to give anything away.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with the story, we finally made it!


	17. Time

 

 

_\---what an ego I had, thinking I could pick away the shell the Vulcans put around you---_

_…_

_…you are the best humanity has to offer…_

Lights flashing, whirling, sterile white light, too bright too bright too bright—

 

\--- _how could you have done this … convinced you were ready for the captain’s chair---_

_…_

_…you acted with courage and conviction, I understand why you did it…_

Voices, low and succinct, smooth and urgent, speaking…Standard English---

 

_\---to think I knew you so little---_

_…_

_…I love you so much it might_ kill me _…_

That voice, that voice, _that_ voice…

 

Michael Burnham opens her eyes.

She isn’t sure what she expected to see, but it certainly isn’t this.

A bustling medical chamber illuminated by clean white light, smooth grey walls, blue biobeds, the air thrumming with—

With…

_Human voices._

A metallic whir near her face…a tricorder?

“Good God, where has this woman been?” It’s a man’s voice, but his tone is soft, his inflection unusually gentle for a Human male.

“A Klingon science vessel for just over a year, Doctor Culber, now for God’s sake _,_ do something!”

That’s Philippa’s voice, her accent becoming more pronounced in her frustrated urgency. Michael cannot help the tremor in her heart. Rare are the times when her captain’s legendary composure has failed, and each and every one of these times has been critical and deadly.

She _must_ be in a bad way, then.

A hypospray hisses into her neck, and the throbbing pain in her chest and extremities begins to ease. _No doubt a strong painkiller,_ Michael muses absently. The respirator on her face is a far better fit for her Human bone structure than the masks aboard the Klingon science vessel, and judging from the relative ease of inhaling, the mask is linked to some type of positive-pressure system designed to force air into weak or nonfunctional lungs.

It is the first time in months that Michael has not found the act of breathing to be a physical challenge.

If she were not so exhausted, she might cry at how wonderful it feels.

Not only that, but after several long breaths, it becomes clear to Michael that the brush of her fingertips over the surface of the biobed is resulting in real, physical _sensation…_

The loss of her peripheral sensory nerves coupled with the loss of her body’s ability to oxygenate itself had been so slow it had gone almost unnoticed during her time in captivity. Curious now, Michael wiggles her toes in her boots and is surprised to find she can feel the softness of her socks, the hardness of the boots’ rigid exterior.

“Wow…what’s in this?” She murmurs, referring to the gas flowing through the respirator, because no way in hell is it mere oxygen.

“A great deal of medication, Ms. Burnham.” Culber’s voice is somewhere below her, no doubt fiddling with the oxygen tank, delivering drugs to the stream and varying the levels of flow. “Getting the feeling back in your fingers and toes yet?”

Michael lifts a hand in front of her face and moves it curiously, as if she will somehow be able to watch the re-oxygenation of the digits firsthand.

“Wow…” She says again, eyes wide, unable to manage any further words for the sensation. A watery chuckle emanates from beside her.

Philippa is still there, somehow Michael had forgotten in her surprise at being able to feel her extremities once more. Still feeling a little stunned, Michael reaches for one of the woman’s wrists. She slides her hands down to grasp Philippa’s hand in both of hers and runs her fingertips over the skin, across the warm surface of her palm, feeling warmth and lines and real, Human _contact_ for the first time in so long.

Naturally, this action has different connotations back on Vulcan, ones of which Michael would have been acutely aware of twelve months ago, but now…

But now…

She is aboard a Federation vessel...

The war…the war is over.

And Philippa Georgiou…her captain… _loves her back._

Michael’s heart skips several beats as recollection washes over her.

_This…_

_Is this really happening?_

“I have to help with triage, Captain,” states the doctor with the kind voice, _and kinder face,_ Michael notes.

By the stars, it was good to see Human faces again.

“All of this is a stopgap at best,” Doctor Culber continues, gesturing at Michael’s battered form propped up on the bio bed. “She’s going to need a real hospital, preferably sooner rather than later.”

Culber turns as if to leave, but whirls back around with an intensely perturbed expression on his face. “Are you aware that you are missing your right kidney, Ms. Burnham?”

A beat of silence hangs in the air.

Michael nods slowly, recalling the scar spanning lower back to abdomen from being run through on T’Kuvma’s blade, back at the Battle of the Binary Stars.

Philippa’s body stiffens, Michael feels it in the clench of the captain’s fingers, and her brain flicks through her options, finally arriving on _De-escalate the Situation._

“Knew I felt lopsided…” Michael manages in a weak whisper.

Philippa snorts at that. One of her hands jumps to her mouth, no doubt to try and cover the sound. “ _God dammit,_ ” she mutters shakily, and Michael’s mouth twitches.

“That’s a “no,” then.” Culber gives her one more look of pure astonishment, before shaking his head and turning away. “Looks like it was carved out with a spoon…” he mumbles as he goes to help a bleeding Andorian crewman.

The lights and colors of the Human sickbay swim in Michael’s weak eyes, everything not in her immediate plane of vision reduced to a vague blur. Luckily, this does not include Philippa Georgiou, who stands at the side of the biobed with Michael’s hand clenched firmly in one of hers.

Michael gazes up at her captain, taking in features she had thought lost to her forever.

A sudden thought occurs to Michael.

“Wait…why aren’t you on the bridge?”

Philippa shakes her head with a rueful smile. “Commander Saru relieved me of duty, told me I was “obviously emotionally compromised, and would likely become more so were you and I to be separated once more.””

Michael stares at her for a long, silent moment.

“Saru…relieved _you_ of duty?”

Philippa smiles softly. “Are you sorry you missed it?”

Michael stays silent, but imagines that the look on her face is demonstrative enough. Philippa laughs even as she brushes her thumb over Michael’s knuckles, her skin mercifully soft and soothing.

The idea of the _Shenzhou’s_ timid Kelpien second officer relieving her formidable captain of duty is utterly ludicrous, but despite this, Michael feels her heart grow warm at the thought of Philippa Georgiou being unable to part with her, despite a captain’s duty to her ship.

_Is this really happening?_

The mere suggestion is dizzying, overwhelming in its scope, heart-stopping in its wonder, and Michael cannot help but entertain the possibility that she died in the Detonator’s explosion, that she died passing through the wormhole, that she died on the floor of the _Discovery_ ’s bridge.

Her eyes dart to the chrono over the bulkhead doors of the bustling sickbay, and she squints painfully through retinas damaged by a year of reading datascreens in a dimly lit Klingon science deck.

Less than one hour ago, she had been on her knees at the feet of Lord T’Kuvma, ready and willing to die.

And now she is in sickbay on the _U.S.S. Discovery,_ with healing medicine pumping into her lungs and her captain standing by her side.

Her captain…who _loves her back_...

Did she die at some point that day?

Is all of this mere hallucination?

Even while Michael ruminates, Philippa points a medical device at Michael’s broken nose, and she feels healing blue beams crawling over bones shattered from T’Kuvma’s back kick during their fight in his ready room. It tickles slightly, but Michael is too tired to react visibly at it.

Instead, she traces Philippa’s wonderful face with weak eyes, re-memorizing features she had thought lost to her forever.

_Older._

Her captain’s face carries more lines than it had when she had last seen it, and there is certain weariness to the set of her jaw, the crease of her forehead. The past year is evident in her appearance, and Michael wonders just what the woman had experienced during the year of war.

Nevertheless, Michael has always loved the canvas of Philippa’s face, the crinkles at the corners of her eyes, the kindness in the curves of her mouth, wisdom and elegance painted across features that speak to her heritage, her home.

She wonders what it might be like to trace the pads of her fingers over those features, what new information she might glean from a tactile exploration, rather than a visual one.

_Can I do that now?_

Philippa’s dark eyes are focused on her task, her lips flat with concentration as she aims the device towards Michael’s face.

Had Michael really kissed those lips, at some point in the last hour?

She closes her eyes and dives into the memory of Philippa’s lips on her own…

Nerves set alight in the best possible way, every pain and ache from the year of hell forgotten in a instant, the sinews of her broken heart reknitting, so many years of love and longing finally, _finally_ given a channel through which to flow…

Peace beyond comprehension. Power beyond measure.

Her body’s journey through the four-dimensional tesseract had been nothing, nothing at all compared to kissing Philippa Georgiou.

 

The crawling sensation in her nose distracts from the memory. Soft rays of healing light rearrange the fragmented bones of shattered nasal passages, and Michael winces at the unfamiliar sensation, her eyes squinting at the odd feeling of bones moving in her face. Philippa smiles softly as she finishes the procedure.

“You used to be far more stoic, Number One.”

She is only teasing; nevertheless, the words carry implications beyond their intended purpose, and Michael lowers her gaze.

“Used to be a lot things…” Her murmur is soft, but carries a weight far greater than volume would assume.

The air grows heavy, the hum of sickbay fading fast into low background noise, a world so distant it might as well be inaccessible, and Michael sees _pain_ flash over Philippa’s face.

Only for a split second, but this is enough to make Michael’s heart tremble.

Clearly unable to stop herself, Philippa traces a hand down Michael’s face, cupping her cheek gently in one hand, the same way she had done less than fifteen minutes previous. But this time, Philippa’s hand is not part of a magnetic containment field.

It is solid, spun from warm Human skin, and Michael’s own hand comes up to cover it, fingertips bursting with sensation once more. The respirator mask over her face makes the entire motion somewhat unwieldy, but the intention behind the action remains the same.

Warm, soft…Human…

_Is this really happening?_

The emotion in Philippa’s face seems to pry her distinguished features right open, laying her soul bare, and by the stars, Michael can barely look at that face directly, the intensity far too much for eyes made weak by constant darkness.

She is here…they are _here-_

“Captain, who’s that?”

Both Michael and Philippa start at the voice, and Michael turns her head to look at the person in the next bio-bed. It’s a young woman with an intensely innocent face, bright red hair surrounding her head like a halo. Michael’s eyes ache at the color.

“This is…” Philippa’s words catch in her throat ever so slightly. “This is Michael Burnham. Michael, this is—“

“Cadet Sylvia Tilly!” The young woman rushes out, her eyes going wide. “ _The_ Michael Burnham, Captain?”

Philippa nods slowly, looking apprehensive. Michael prepares herself for an onslaught of accusations, of _mutineer—traitor—defector,_ but to her astonishment, Cadet Sylvia Tilly’s face lights up like a star.

“You’re the first person to plot a course through the Maw! Okay well, the _only_ person, but whatever! Your work is _legendary_ , your calculations are in all of my quantum physics textbooks, oh my gosh it is such an honor to meet you!” The young woman is all but wriggling with excitement, impressive considering the bloody bandages crossing her midsection and wrists.

Michael’s eyebrows feel like they might climb off of her forehead altogether, but Sylvia Tilly doesn’t seem to notice as she babbles on.

“ _The_ Michael Burnham, here in sickbay, right next to me…Wow, of _all_ the things I expected to happen today…” Tilly trails off, beaming brightly. She turns her head back towards the ceiling, shaking it ever so slightly like she can’t quite believe the gift the universe has bestowed upon her.

Sickbay is loud with the bustle of the large number of casualties from the recent massive space battle that decided the fate of Earth, as well as the entire Alpha Quadrant; nevertheless, Philippa and Michael manage a quiet moment of staring at Cadet Sylvia Tilly, then at each other.

Michael imagines her expression must be truly gob-smacked, because the captain chuckles weakly at it.

“She’ll want your autograph, I imagine.”

“I look forward to that,” Michael mumbles, already imagining the novelty of signing a piece of paper with functional fingers. She crosses her arms over her chest and tries not to shiver in the comparative chill of this Human ship.

Naturally, Philippa notices this. She seems to flinch ever so slightly, and Michael wonders at the reaction. “I’ll track down some blankets for you, Michael. Sit tight.”

She pulls her hand from Michael’s weak grip, and Michael immediately misses the warmth of it. She curls up just a little bit tighter into herself, as if to rekindle the lost heat. Philippa looks unusually hesitant for a moment, before dropping a kiss onto Michael’s forehead.

Michael waits until Philippa’s back is turned before tracing at the patch of skin where her captain’s lips had just been, her fingertips filled with sensation once more.

_This must be heaven, then._

“Wow…” From somewhere to her far right, Cadet Tilly sounds fascinated. “So like, you were her first officer, right? Is that just a thing between captains and Number Ones? Aw, I bet Captain Georgiou missed you a lot…should I call you Commander Burnham? Only you’re not a commander anymore cause you were dead for a year, and also you did that mutiny…”

Tilly trails off once more, her eyes darting rapidly as she searches for what she might call her new comrade-in-sickbay.

“Just “Michael” is fine,” Michael murmurs in response. And it _was_ just fine, she realizes with no little amazement. After a full year of hearing nothing but _Maghwl’_ from the brutal mouths of Klingons, to be called her true name once more might be one of the most tempting concepts that she can presently imagine.

“Okay then, _Michael_ ,” Tilly sounds thrilled at the prospect, and Michael relishes the sound of her name on the lips of another Human. “So, are you and the captain, like, together?”

Michael shifts her head to the side to give the cadet a searching look.

“Oh my gosh, please say yes! Not that it’s hugely my business, except I really like when the captain is happy, and she just looks so sad sometimes…it’s been a long year, y’know? Oh!” Tilly’s eyes widened like she’s just realized something. “I bet this is why she never lets anyone badmouth you! Lieutenant Stamets got in so much trouble one time because he said you betrayed Starfleet, I’ve never seen her so angry in my life. I was _so scared_ , Michael…”

Michael’s jaw goes slack at Tilly’s words. Dim shock pervades her body, because it had never occurred to her that Philippa had thought of her with anything aside from disdain during the past year.

_She just looks so sad sometimes…_

Michael had never had the time to give much thought to her captain’s day-to-day life aboard the _Discovery_ during the past year, but perhaps she should have made more of an effort.

Nodding slowly now, partially because of the respirator over her face, Michael asks, “What’s it like, serving under her?”

Tilly cocks her head as she searches for the correct words. “Well…she’s inspiring, when she’s not being really scary or breaking the rules.” Michael raises her eyebrows at that, but Tilly quickly amends. “Okay, she’s still pretty inspiring even when she’s breaking the rules.”

Michael’s eyebrows rise higher.

_Philippa Georgiou…breaking rules? Being scary?_

Michael considers the possibility that the final wormhole had somehow deposited her into an alternate universe.

“She hangs out in Stamets’ lab a lot, and that’s where I am, so we end up talking. Well,” Tilly laughs. “ _I_ end up talking mostly, I don’t know if Captain Georgiou likes talking that much, but she doesn’t seem to mind listening to me and that’s pretty rare, y’know? She just looks really sad a lot, and people say that I’m good at cheering them up so I tried pretty hard with her.”

Tilly stops her chatter and looks at Michael. Her gaze softens, and Michael sees the intelligence behind her eyes. “I think she’s gonna be happier from now on.”

Before Michael can respond, a soft _something_ is deposited onto her chest.

“I’m sorry it took so long Michael, I had several conflicts to mediate both there and back.”

Michael can hear the eye-roll in Philippa’s voice, and smiles at it. The captain busies herself in spreading the blankets over Michael’s shivering body, and Michael draws them tightly around her form, reveling in the sensation of the fabric. It is medical-issue material, thus not particularly soft, but the high-tech nature of the weave makes the blankets intensely warm. Michael can practically feel her core temperature increasing with each passing second.

There is movement at her feet, and Michael realizes that Philippa is gently easing her feet out of her Starfleet-issue boots.

The boots that she had put on this morning in her cell on the Klingon science vessel, for what she had thought would be the last time.

_To die with one’s boots on…_

Michael manages a weak huff at the cosmic irony, before tucking her sock-clad feet beneath the warmth of the blankets.

“Thank you,” She murmurs once more. Her eyes are growing heavy, but she doesn’t want to look away from Philippa Georgiou’s incredible face, not now, not _ever_. Taking in the woman’s beautiful features adds to the warmth kindling in Michael’s chest, so she reasons that she ought to continue, if only for the sake of her own health.

Philippa looks like she’s on the verge of tears, which is strange. Michael has seen her cry twice in her life, and one of those times only barely.

“What’s wrong?”

The captain snorts at that, lips twisting in distress.

“You have _got_ to be kidding me.”

Her voice trembles, and her hand comes up to cover her mouth. The other hand slides up the surface of the bio bed to clench one of Michael’s hands in an almost bruising grip. She looks up to the ceiling of sickbay, shaking her head like she can’t quite believe this.

“Philippa?” Michael is intensely concerned now.

As if she cannot stop herself, Philippa twitches and reaches towards Michael’s neck, brushing over skin bruised from T’Kuvma’s chokehold. Michael flinches out of instinct rather than any actual pain, but Philippa jerks her hand away regardless.

“That was terrifying to watch.” Philippa’s voice is an anguished whisper. “That…that whole transmission.”

She sighs shakily. “I suppose I should have known you would be prepared.”

Michael blinks. “What?”

Philippa raises a confused eyebrow. “Surely you remember this, Michael. You were armed? You put up one hell of a fight.”

Michael blinks again.

“I didn’t plan that.”

Philippa’s jaw drops.

“I told you this…” Michael rasps. “I saw your face…decided I didn’t want to—“

Philippa cuts her off with a quick shake of her head. “I—“ Her jaw works, and she closes her eyes as if to block something out. “…I have seen you plan chess strategies twenty moves in advance, are you honestly telling me that all of that was improvised?”

“Yes.”

“But that--- that weapon you had…” Philippa begins. “What was that? It could not have been a phaser—“

“A slugthrower,” Michael mumbles, feeling a twinge of embarrassment at the primitive nature of the device that had saved her life.

_Might as well have built a bow and arrow._

“A _slug_ \--“

Philippa cuts herself off, staring at Michael with an almost comical level of disbelief in her expression. “Are you saying you built a _gun_?”

Michael’s dark eyes flicker as she considers the question. “Yes.”

The captain cocks her head, looking for all the world like Michael has grown a second head.

“But…” Philippa shakes her head in helpless confusion. “You were not planning on fighting?”

“Yes.”

“So what, you built it for fun?”

“Not exactly…” Michael murmurs.

Philippa rolls her eyes. “You are being frustratingly vague, Michael.”

_Not planning on fighting…_

_A slugthrower with only one slug…_

Personally, Michael feels that the implication is quite obvious. She does not know if she ought to be flattered or disappointed that her true intention behind building the slugthrower does not even seem to be a possibility in Philippa’s mind.

Michael’s chest grows heavy with the realization that her captain cannot fathom a universe in which her protégée, her former commander, would give up.

The struggle to come up with an answer is mercifully interrupted by the crackle of Philippa’s comm-badge.

“ _Commander Saru to Captain Georgiou_.”

“Go ahead, Mr. Saru.” Philippa ducks her head to reply.

“ _Thirty-two Starfleet ships have dropped from warp, and Captain Anton Sherov reports one hundred and eighteen more on their way, both Starfleet and militia, ten minutes to three hours out._ ”

Philippa blinks.

Michael watches as the captain slowly reaches up to deactivate her comm-badge, eye twitching ever so slightly, her face carefully blank.

“Fuck me _fucking_ sideways.” She finally grates through gritted teeth, and Michael can’t stop her eyes from widening at the language, said in full view of her subordinates in a crowded sickbay.

Reactivating her comm-badge now, Philippa snaps “Georgiou to Saru. Tell them they’re fucking late.”

The comm-badge deactivates once more, and Michael practically gapes.

Philippa takes one look at Michael’s face, and the fury twisting her elegant features quickly collapses into something resembling shame.

“Some things have…changed-- ...since you were gone, Michael.”

“I would say so…” Michael manages to murmur, remembering Cadet Tilly’s warbling explanation of Philippa’s behavior as captain of the _Discovery_.

She manages a weak smile. “I had no idea I was such a tempering influence on you.”

Philippa snorts at that, one hand coming up to cover her mouth. From the interesting way her face contorts, her jaw quivers, Michael gets the impression that she is attempting to suppress a far more hysterical reaction.

“God dammit, I missed you,” Philippa mumbles through her clenched fist, and the admission makes Michael tremble where she lies.

_She missed me…_

This notion might just be the most wonderful, healing thing Michael could ever conceptualize.

Then again…

_I love you, Michael…I promise I do._

While she thinks this, she spots Philippa flinch ever so slightly, before the captain can school her reaction.

_Oh…_

_Am I supposed to say it back?_

Michael muses on her feelings during the past year. She had thought about Philippa constantly, _constantly_ , yet each and every one of these thoughts had brought pain and shame in their wake.

Pain at a love doomed from the start, shame from her betrayal, however justified it was.

T’Kuvma’s visit had brought the agony to a shatterpoint, and Michael had decided that she could not take it anymore.

The simple truth was that…

“I didn’t think you were mine to miss.”

Michael’s response is low and measured, and Philippa’s eyes swim at it. Her mouth opens and closes several times, trembling as it does so, and Michael cannot help the tremor that courses through her body at the raw emotion in her captain’s expression.

Like the fiery accretion disk of a black hole, the diamond glow of a neutron star…devastating in its beauty, terrifying in its power…blinding in its intensity.

Michael averts her weak eyes to a point somewhere over her captain’s shoulder.

“I have…so much to tell you…” Philippa manages, and her voice wobbles like it might give way.

The weight of the moment is almost stifling.

Michael smiles weakly, trying for some levity. “You could start by…telling me why Starfleet…wouldn’t listen to _you_ , of all people?”

“I started ignoring them,” Philippa states flatly, her mouth twisting into a bitter shape.

Michael raises both of her eyebrows at this.

“Oh stop it, Michael, I…I did a great many horrible things during this war…”

Philippa ducks away now, eyes wide and trembling at the memories.

“We both did,” Michael murmurs softly, daring to reach out for Philippa’s face and turn it gently back towards her. Philippa’s hand comes up to cover Michael’s, and once more the former commander revels in the sensation in her fingertips.

“ _We both did_?” Philippa snorts. “You, imprisoned on a Klingon science vessel for twelve months—“

Michael cuts her off, feeling an odd combination of amused and annoyed. “I'm not entirely certain how you missed this, Philippa, but I just killed well over thirty _thousand_ beings in less than two minutes, and it was…” Michael’s mouth works itself into a bitter smile, “An _incredibly_ premeditated murder…”

It hasn’t quite hit her yet, but it will, Michael knows. Her eyes grow heavy with the realization.

Philippa only shakes her head at this, ducking down to meet Michael’s eyes.

“You saved all of us,” she whispers. “You did what you had to do, the only thing you could have done...”

The words sound truly insane coming from Philippa Georgiou, the woman who had told her that they do not take innocent lives, that Starfleet does not fire first, that she has to _hope_ that whatever happens could serve as a bridge between their two races…

 

_Who on Earth have we become?_

A daunting, terrifying question.

 

But perhaps one for another time. The blankets are warm, the bio bed is soft, and Michael presses her cheek into the plush surface, pulling the blankets tighter as if to protect herself from these thoughts, from reality, from everything outside of this bed and the woman who stands by it like a sentinel.

“It’s alright, Michael, it’s alright…you’re safe, you’re here, we’re going to go down to Earth soon…” Philippa’s voice is low and soothing, her thumb rubs at Michael’s shoulder. “Imagine that…sunlight, fresh air…”

“…I’ll be court-martialed…” Michael mumbles as her eyelids droop. If she were stronger, she might manage some type of fear at the prospect, but as it is, only a vague apprehension trickles through her chest.

Philippa’s mouth opens as if to deny it, before dropping shut once more. Emotions flicker across her face, and her lips twist into a determined expression.

“I won’t let that happen, Michael.”

“I’ve seen the news cycles…” Michael mutters. “…what they say about me…nothing you can do…“

Philippa raises both eyebrows, cocking her head in exaggerated offense at the statement.

“Seven years you have served under me, and still you say such foolish things...” Her voice is a fond murmur. “Nothing _I_ can do…” Philippa shakes her head dismissively. “What a notion.”

Michael cannot help her weak smile at her captain’s bravado. Nevertheless, Philippa reads the dubious look in her eyes easily, and responds by sliding her hand down Michael’s shoulder to lace their fingers together. Michael pushes her opposite hand out of the blankets to reach for the other, and before she knows it their hands are stacked together, interlinked like a four-leaf clover.

“No matter what happens…I won’t let them take you from me, Michael. Do you understand?”

Philippa’s tone turns to steel, and cold intent crackles in the air. The words are binding oath, a pledge from a woman whose promises are unbreakable.

Michael cannot help a slight gasp, and tears prick at the corners of her eyes at the long-forgotten notion of _protection_ , of someone else fighting on her behalf for the first time in this whole god-forsaken year…twelve months and twelve long, brutal, agonizing days.

By the stars, the idea that she can finally, _finally_ put down her burden and have another person willing to carry it in her stead…not just any someone, but her _captain_ , no less?

The woman she had betrayed, the woman she had hurt so deeply…

The woman who loves her in spite of this.

_Because of this?_

The tears trickle down Michael’s cheeks now, and Philippa wipes them away with loving fingers.

This, of course, only makes them stream harder.

_Safety…_

Michael’s breath hitches.

_Protection…_

Michael feels her face crumple, and cannot muster the strength to stop it. Her hand comes up to try to hold in a sob, but it only collides with the respirator mask.

From her place at Michael’s side, Philippa mutters something that sounds disturbingly like “ _fuck it_.” Before Michael can blink, the woman is scooting onto the bed next to her, pulling her wrapped-up form into her chest with strong, protective arms.

Michael can hear Cadet Tilly attempting to stifle her excited squealing at their public display of affection, but this doesn’t matter, not in the slightest.

“Don’t be afraid, my love…” Philippa whispers, and the musical lilt of her voice far surpasses Culber’s medications in healing potency. “I’ve got you…it’s okay…I’ve got you...”

The kindness is too much, far too much, Michael can feel the last of her mental barriers collapsing into dusty fragments at the tender words. The agony and stress of the past year trickles from her eyes, her nose, her chest in the form of soft, gasping cries, and Michael shakes uncontrollably as it does so. She buries her face into Philippa’s chest as best she can with the respirator mask over her mouth, curls her body up tighter in the comfort of her warm embrace, and the outside world disappears.

It’s just the two of them.

Philippa is so unbelievably close, and her soft, soothing scent storms through Michael’s repaired nasal passages to strike her right in the heart. Heat blooms in Michael’s chest, a glowing warmth that breaks over her head and trickles down her spine, and she inhales hungrily even through shaking tears…

…that wonderful Human scent that means safety, that means strength and fortitude, humor and love, wisdom and protection…

By the stars, of all the ways Michael Burnham had thought this day might end, being held and cuddled, rocked gently by the woman she loves beyond all manner of measurement was so far from being one of them that still it feels like the most wonderful type of dream.

“You’re safe…I’ve got you…” She feels the warmth of Philippa’s whispered words at the crown of her head, feels her tender smile in the slight rustle of her coily hair.

“…my Michael…”

Michael wraps the murmured words around herself like a blanket, like a shield. Philippa’s hand strokes her face, fingertips following tracks left by tears, thumb brushing over the pale scar on Michael’s cheekbone. The warmth of her skin only makes Michael’s eyes well even more.

Philippa continues her soothing murmurs, but Michael does not have the strength to tell her that these tears are not from fear. Exhaustion rises in her body like a stifling tide, crawling up her spine and into her consciousness, weighting her eyelids and pressing upon her limbs.

_No…_

What if she wakes up to find this was only a dream?

What if she does not wake up at all?

“Tell me again…” Michael manages to mumble, desperately clinging to consciousness. She cranes her neck to look up at Philippa’s wonderful, familiar face, just in case it disappears forever the second she releases her grip on wakefulness.

Philippa raises her eyebrow in a silent question.

“What you said…on the bridge… _please_ …” Her voice is barely a whisper, darkness teases at the edges of her vision, but Michael does not want to go before hearing the words one last time.

Philippa nods quickly in understanding, and leans down so their eyes are level.

“I love you…” The captain’s hand cups Michael’s cheek once more, tracing down her neck, fingertips brushing the tender spots where T’Kuvma’s fists had squeezed with cruel conviction less than an hour previous. “I love you…”

Philippa’s musical voice swims with care and comfort, but even as she whispers, her dark eyes flicker with something far more calculating _._ Michael wonders dimly what Philippa’s clever mind might be plotting, _why_ her clever mind might be plotting…

She has several theories, but none that she particularly wants to speculate on at the moment.

Instead, Michael focuses on the melody of Philippa's voice, on the pads of fingers that trace her skin with tenderness so infinite that her heart aches with it. She thinks that if words could heal she would certainly be on her feet by now, stronger than any Human or Vulcan could ever hope to be.

Michael ruminates on this as she drifts off, safe in Philippa Georgiou’s warm embrace, firmly in the world of the living.

_Love… not a feeling, but a force…_

Tearing her down and building her anew as it cast her through a hole in reality, a rip across a two hundred thousand kilometer void, a tunnel spanning time and space itself…

A bridge, spanning the dual nature of her being.

She takes in Philippa Georgiou’s perfect scent, inhaling safety, love, peace, and promise with each soothing breath, and knows that even after the success of her plot to take down the Klingons, her victory over Lord T’Kuvma himself, her own apotheosis through the realm of the fourth dimension, this particular achievement is by far her most important.

Mind and heart, finally whole.

Love and logic, finally reconciled.

 

 

Peace…at last.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record...Michael is fiendishly difficult to write. 
> 
> This chapter began as a fun deleted scene chapter before I realized I could actually make it relevant/I had to do something because nothing else was working.
> 
> Happy hiatus everybody!


	18. Somewhere Only We Know

 

 

 

On the whole, this meeting does not feel nearly as cloak-and-dagger as it actually is.

Truly, if one were to meet in secret with one of the higher ups currently on the committee responsible for court martialing the hero of the Battle for Earth, the instigator of both the start and the end of the Klingon War, it ought to be in the back room of an old warehouse in the industrial district, with cigars and phasers and getaway pilots.

Philippa Georgiou does not know whether to be relieved or disappointed that they are meeting in this airy coffee shop in the middle of a cozy neighborhood in east San Francisco.

She slips into the sunny café anyway and immediately spots Admiral Cornwell ensconced in the back corner reading intently off of a PADD, an iced green drink on the table in front of her.

Philippa disregards the line for the beverage counter and strides towards Cornwell. No one in the café pays her a second glance, which she considers a blessing, but not a surprise. The only media images she has ever appeared in were in uniform, and she understands that the general public is unable to imagine her as anything other than a Starfleet captain. A hat and civilian clothing are more than enough to conceal her identity.

 _It doesn’t take much_ , Philippa considers with satisfaction as she drops into the chair across from Cornwell.

The admiral looks up from her PADD at the action and smiles in greeting. “It’s good to see you, Philippa.”

“What the hell, Kat?” Philippa deadpans her response.

“I know, I don’t like it anymore than you do—“ Cornwell begins, but Philippa cuts her off.

“Than what the hell are you doing going along with it?”

“What choice do I have, Philippa?” Cornwell’s voice is low and urgent. “I won’t have any type of control over the situation if I rebel against it now, I want to see this to the end—“

“ _See it_ to the end? Or do something about it?” Philippa wants to roll her eyes.

The entire situation is intensely ironic, and Philippa acknowledges this in her head. Out of the two of them, Katrina Cornwell was always more inclined towards breaking rules and bucking protocol. For the tables to turn in this way is darkly amusing.

Cornwell, for her part, only sighs and shakes her head.

“I’m only one admiral out of many, Philippa, I can only do so much. Helping you like this might be the extent of it.”

Philippa huffs impatiently, but she knows that her friend is likely right.

“Fine.” Her lips twist in frustration. “Tell me why Starfleet command feels the need to do this.”

“It’s simple, Philippa.” Cornwell’s voice is resigned. “This war was brutal on the Federation, on Starfleet itself, and for it to end in this particular way… Starfleet needs to look like we’re doing _something_ —“

“By punishing the woman responsible for the bloodless end to the war?” Philippa asks sarcastically.

“By punishing the woman responsible for starting the damn war in the first place!” Cornwell snaps.

“You know as well as I do that it was not her fault—“

“But does everyone else know that?” Cornwell cuts her off.

Philippa glares at her, knowing exactly where this is going.

Cornwell turns to look out across the café, and a hint of shame colors her features. “Look, I’m not proud of the smear campaign, but we’ve all but committed to it at this point. You have to understand, if we back down from it now, after the war ended with Starfleet basically doing _nothing_ to contribute…”

“Oh don’t sell yourselves short,” Philippa remarks. “You contributed in a deeply meaningful way.”

“Philippa—“

“Your refusal to act at a critical moment certainly helped to engineer the victory that occurred—“

Cornwell’s jaw works in frustration. “You understand why we made that choice!”

“Understand, yes. Agree? Hell no.” Philippa leans forward slightly. “Which brings me to my next point of business.”

She slips a holo-emitter from her bag currently stashed under her chair. With a few quick punches of her fingers, the device activates to display a miniaturized holo-image of Philippa Georgiou in her ready-room, the holograms of Admirals Terral, Cornwell, and Kepler surrounding her form.

“ _Billions of lives will be lost if we do not act now—_ “

“ _Captain!_ … _This “wormhole device” of which you speak, surely you know what it sounds like…_ ”

“ _Crazy?_ ”

“ _I was going to say “misinformation.” A rumor, one we have all heard at one time or another over the past year…_ ”

“Touché, Philippa.”

To her credit, Cornwell sounds legitimately impressed, both eyebrows raised in grudging respect as she regards the projection.

“You understand, of course, what might happen to Starfleet command’s reputation, were this to somehow…” Philippa raises an eyebrow. “…slip into the public media channels?”

“There’s no need to talk to me like I’m an idiot, of course I know.”

Cornwell sighs impatiently, her eyes darting as she considers her options.

Finally, she shrugs and looks Philippa in the eye. “So, what do you want?”

“I want the charges dropped,” Philippa answers, but Cornwell only shakes her head.

“I can’t do that.”

The look of outrage on Philippa’s face spurs the admiral along. “Look, I want them dropped too. I don’t like this anymore than you do, but that ship has long since jumped to warp, and we can’t bring it back. Not to mention …”

Cornwell crosses her arms over her chest and leans back in her chair with a slightly uncomfortable expression. “You know about Kepler and Anderson, don’t you?”

“What, the worst kept secret among the admiralty?”

Despite the tense circumstances, both Cornwell and Philippa snort at that. Cornwell sobers up first, her face going somber.

“Kepler blames Burnham for what happened to the _Europa_ …for what happened to Brett.”

“A blame which is misplaced, Kat,” Philippa emphasizes slowly. “T’Kuvma’s ramship is what happened to the _Europa_ , and Burnham killed T’Kuvma, everyone on the planet saw her do it! For God’s sake, Kepler should be _thanking_ her.”

“I’m not the one you need to convince.”

Philippa runs a weary hand over her face. “This won’t go the way he wants it to go.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Cornwell insists. “Public opinion is far and away on your side, all news channels are hailing Burnham as a hero—“

“As they should be,” Philippa points out. Cornwell concedes the point with a nod, before narrowing her eyes into a shrewd expression.

“Y’know, it’s interesting how they all somehow got holos of her explanation of how she hijacked that Klingon wormhole machine,” Cornwell continues, placing her chin in her hand. “The eyewitness testimony from an undisclosed source aboard the _Discovery_ is also somewhat…convenient.”

Philippa keeps her face still, her eyes open and innocent.

“Seems you have a leak on your hands, Captain,” Cornwell states, raising a pointed eyebrow.

“Unbelievable,” Philippa deadpans with a shake of her head. “After all my crew and I have been through together…how could they betray me like this?”

Cornwell huffs, but there’s no bite in it. “Well, I trust that you’re working hard to track down the source.”

“With the entirety of my resources,” Philippa pledges in a serious tone.

As a Starfleet captain whose ship is in dry dock and whose crew is on shore leave, Philippa’s aforementioned resources do not technically exist at the present moment, something that both captain and admiral understand.

Cornwell gazes at her for a long moment, before finally offering a mock toast with her iced drink. Philippa dips her head in exaggerated show of acceptance.

“Look, you and I both know that Judiciary won’t send Burnham to prison. It would be publicity suicide at this point, even Kepler knows that,” Cornwell adds. “But Philippa, the odds of her being reinstated are…”

Cornwell trails off and shakes her head, and Philippa’s lip twists in anger. “That’s bullshit, Kat—“

“It’s really not.” Cornwell’s voice is impatient now. “She is Starfleet’s only mutineer, _and_ she built a machine that could easily tear the universe apart.”

Both women are silent for several moments, contemplating what Cornwell implies with the statement.

“Michael Burnham is dangerous,” Cornwell finally murmurs. “A threat to the order of Starfleet, a threat to…well, everything.”

“You should want to keep her even more, then,” Philippa insists, annoyance evident in her face. “Keep her close so you can keep an eye on her, even use her brilliant mind for Fleet purposes…honestly Kat, it’s cadet-level reasoning—“

“She has demonstrated very clearly, very _publically_ , that she cannot be controlled. Starfleet command will not tolerate a person like that in their ranks, and they sure as hell won’t want to encourage that behavior in others by allowing her to continue to serve.”

Philippa only laughs mirthlessly, the sound sharp and cutting. “You are all such hypocrites, you know that? Punishing Michael Burnham for the very same behavior that you are commending me for. Like I didn’t go rogue for the last several months of the war, like I didn’t disobey a direct order—“

“Every narrative needs a hero, Philippa, and that’s you,” Cornwell insists.

Philippa only stares at her.

“Bull. Shit.” The clipped syllables barely restrain the fury in her voice. “Michael Burnham is the hero, you know it, I know it, this planet knows it, the whole damn universe will know it by the time I’m finished—“

“Philippa—“

“How can you sit there and say these things to me, Kat?” Philippa demands, her helplessness at the situation turning quickly to fury. “What has happened to you? How can you stand by as the admiralty punishes a war hero and praises a villain?”

Cornwell raises a disbelieving eyebrow. “You think you’re the villain—“

“You know exactly what I did during the course of the war, the decisions I made, the protocols I breached, of course I’m the _damn villain_ —“

“Because it’s easier!”

The exclamation rings in silence between them, the background bustle of the café seeming oddly distant at the moment.

Cornwell sighs shakily, running hand across her face and through her hair.

 _She looks exhausted,_ Philippa notes, but is quite unable to manage any sympathy.

“It’s easier…” Cornwell finishes, her voice dull and tired. “It’s easier to remain in this framework, the narrative we’ve crafted over the past year. It’s easier to commit to this---…this _story_ —“

“-- _fabrication_ —“ Philippa mutters, but Cornwell ignores her.

“--than it is to admit that we were wrong. It’s just…”

Cornwell shakes her head helplessly and looks at Philippa now. “It’s easier, Philippa.”

Philippa stares at Katrina Cornwell, her old friend, now her superior, and hopes that some of her disappointment shows through. “If there is one thing I have learned from this past year of hell, it is that doing what is right is often not easy, but it is… _astoundingly_ worthwhile.”

Philippa sighs, drumming her fingertips on the tabletop. She considers what to say next.

“Starfleet command could retract everything they have ever said against Burnham. Hell, you don’t even have to do that, you could make her story into one of redemption, one of a woman succeeding against all odds, cleaning up her mess, finishing what she started. Remaining loyal to Starfleet, even through a year of captivity and isolation.”

The memory of Michael Burnham in her Starfleet uniform, fighting like a wildcat against Lord T’Kuvma on the eve of the Battle for Earth, takes both of them for a brief moment.

“Redemption and forgiveness, Kat,” Philippa insists, her voice soft and gentle. “After this past year of constant terror, fear and violence…surely this is what we all need right now?”

Cornwell only shakes her head, looking sad beyond belief. “I want that for her, Philippa, I really do, but…that’s just not going to happen at this point…”

“There are so many other ways you could sell this, Kat.” Philippa’s voice is insistent to the point of desperate. “So many other ways, why must the admiralty choose this one?”

Cornwell remains silent, her eyes averted towards the floor.

Philippa sighs and looks away. She considers their present circumstances silently, and with a good deal of disgust. Years, _decades_ , she had been on the admiralty’s good side, enjoying their praise, their respect, all of the perks that came with being a favored captain, but now?

_It is during the hard times that you learn who your true friends are..._

Philippa knows this, but knowing something and living it are two vastly different things.

The silence holds for several long moments, until Philippa finally shakes her head, giving it up as a lost cause. Her face hardens, her voice becomes clipped and business-like once more.

“I want Burnham released for the duration of the trial.”

“Of course,” Cornwell nods, her own tone turns calm and measured in response. “But she’ll have to remain on Earth, no stellar travel.”

“Are you serious?” Philippa rolls her eyes. “After a year in Klingon custody, she should be returning to Vulcan, spending time with her family-“

“This is an extremely high profile case, Philippa, you know why we can’t do that.”

And Philippa _does_ know why, to be fair. It is far easier for the accused and the condemned to slip away into the vastness of space than into the relative confines of a planet, whether by choice or by force. Keeping Michael planet-side is just as much for her own safety as well as for the admiralty’s peace of mind; still, Philippa cannot help but be angered on her behalf.

“And it’s not like her family isn’t here on Earth,” Cornwell continues. “Unless that was a different Amanda Grayson who cursed out our security forces.”

Philippa’s lips twitch at the memory of the typically soft-spoken Amanda Grayson yelling at the Starfleet personnel who had barged into Michael’s hospital room unannounced. Cornwell looks amused as well, though she hides it better.

“Fine, then. Release during the trial, no stellar travel.” Philippa repeats their agreement for clarity, and Cornwell nods in confirmation.

Philippa twists her lip ever so slightly as she considers her next demand.

“I don’t want us to be barred from seeing each other.”

Cornwell shakes her head at this. “You’re the captain she mutinied against, the prime witness in her trial, that would be so intensely unethical—“

“Really?” Philippa cuts her off, her tone unimpressed to the point of scathing. “You are going to lecture me over ethics, after Starfleet command arrested the hero of the Klingon War in her hospital bed?” She huffs, running a shaking hand across her forehead. “This is beyond fucked up—“

“Alright Philippa, I get it!” Cornwell cuts her off with a sharp gesture from both hands. Her fingers come up to pinch the bridge of her nose, and Philippa knows that this demand will be hard to meet.

She pointedly tips the holo-emitter onto its edge on the coffee shop table, sliding it back and forth with the fingers of one hand. The device makes an audible grumbling sound as the metal shell rolls across the wood of the table surface, and Cornwell fixes it with a weak glare.

Philippa leans forward. “We will be discrete, if that is your concern.”

A complete lie of course, but far better than the truth.

“Fine.” Cornwell finally sighs, weariness weighting her tone. “It won’t be easy, but…I’ll make it happen.”

“Thank you.”

Philippa bends to tuck the holo-emitter back into her bag. There is nothing left to say, nothing more that Philippa wants that Cornwell is in a position to give. The captain understands that Katrina Cornwell is only one admiral among many, boxed in by bureaucracy and politics, but she sure as hell doesn’t have to like it.

“Philippa…I genuinely am sorry for all of this.” Cornwell sounds like she means it.

Philippa sighs and looks at her old friend, her gaze softening despite herself. She wishes, not for the first time, that things could be simpler.

“I know you are, Kat.”

Cornwell leans in slightly, and a touch of her typical compassion creases her features. “And try to get some rest, my friend. You look exhausted.”

Philippa sighs and looks away. Sleep has been difficult to come by since returning to Earth, since the end of the war, now that there is room in her brain for specters of the past to raise their ugly heads and rip open her dreams. As a licensed therapist, Katrina Cornwell would be a good choice to talk to about it, Philippa knows, but the thought of sullying their friendship with the full burden of her sins makes her recoil.

Instead, Philippa merely offers Cornwell a shrug and a tired smile.

“You end one war, and the next one begins before you can blink.”

A somber silence hangs for a long moment.

Finally, Philippa shakes herself out of the melancholy. “Thank you for helping me like this, Kat.”

“Seemed the least I could do,” Cornwell offers with a shrug.

Philippa slings her bag over her shoulder and stands up to leave. “And give the admirals my regards. Of course, by regards I mean this.”

She points a rude hand gesture in Cornwell’s direction, and the woman chokes on her drink.

“God, who are even you anymore?” Cornwell wipes at her mouth indelicately, even as she smiles. “I’ll be sure to pass that along.”

“See that you do.” Philippa shakes her head. “But in all seriousness, you should know…”

Her spine straightens now, and her mouth flattens to a hard line. “If I cannot make the admiralty change its mind, mark my words…I _will_ make them regret it.”

The ice in her tone causes Cornwell to look up. A small smile crosses her lips.

“You’ve changed, Philippa.”

It’s not an accusation, but an acknowledgment of the truth.

Philippa only nods once, her face smooth in acceptance. “You’re damn right I have.”

She turns to leave, but only makes it two steps before Cornwell calls to her.

“Philippa!”

The captain turns back around slowly, to see Cornwell smiling again, genuinely this time.

“I’m happy for you.”

Her tone is warm with humor and knowing beyond all power of belief.

Philippa lets out a long, slow sigh and closes her eyes, her jaw working silently.

“Does _everyone_ know?”

Cornwell’s grin is nothing less than shit-eating. “You declared your love for your former commander in front of your entire bridge crew, after which said commander tore a hole in the universe to get to you before her ship exploded in a fiery collision that saved the planet.”

Philippa slumps at the implication.

“There isn’t a Starfleet officer, cadet, or personnel member in existence who doesn’t know.”

Several choice Malay curses spring to Philippa’s lips in an long, unbroken string, and Katrina Cornwell attempts to hide her laughter behind her drink.

Despite the profanity, Philippa doesn’t feel any particular anger towards the situation, and she acknowledges this fact as she leaves the café.

_The person I was thirteen months ago would have been mortified._

Warm June sunlight dances across her skin as she strides down the sidewalk, and Philippa cannot help but think of the future, of bringing Michael to her aging apartment on Pulau Langkawi. Philippa imagines the way Michael might feel against her body as they lay tangled together under the covers, what secrets, heartaches, and endearments they might whisper in the moonlight. She pictures how Michael’s curly hair will look splayed across the white fabric of the pillows, how peaceful her dark, beautiful face will be as she sleeps.

Philippa shakes her head.

_The person I was thirteen months ago was an idiot._

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

Thankfully, the trial does not happen right away. Despite the war technically being over, there is still a great deal of cleanup and relief work to do, as well as peace talks and negotiations with the remaining Klingon leadership. This pressing issue keeps Starfleet command sufficiently busy, and Michael Burnham is allotted nearly two weeks before her case goes to court.

Eleven Earth cycles, to be precise.

Michael and Philippa exchange exhausted looks when they are informed of the length of time.

Still, it is more time than Philippa Georgiou had ever expected to be granted with the woman she loves, more time by a long shot, and she cannot help but give thanks to the universe for such a blessing.

Not that she will be able to be present for its entirety, of course. A galactic war has just ended after all, and the captain of the _U.S.S. Discovery_ is needed for debriefings and testimonies; not to mention the significant chunks of time she has allotted towards fighting Judiciary and rallying public opinion concerning the fate of one Michael Burnham.

Nevertheless, the thought of Michael tucked away from prying eyes while she regains her strength, safely sequestered in a place of warmth and sunlight fills Philippa with happiness, even if she cannot be there for its entirety.

 

Still, Michael’s first night of freedom is theirs to share, and Philippa is intent on making the most of it.

 

She understands that as much as she may want to, there is no way in hell that she will be able to wrap her arms around Michael and remain in that state for the next eleven days, so Philippa does the next best thing that she can think to do.

This apartment is very much on the old side, but the replicator is up-to-date, and Philippa spends several minutes carefully programming it, punching in code and specifications. Michael is likely a size or two smaller than she was back on the _Shenzhou,_ which Philippa takes into account, and finally, she has several workable articles of clothing.

She spots the ghost of a smile on Michael’s face upon bestowing the articles to her, and is gratified to see the woman walk out of the steaming bathroom twenty minutes later wearing the thick fleece sweater draping over her form in an almost stylish way, extending to mid-thigh. Warm leggings and thick socks complete the look, and the entire ensemble makes Michael look so damn _cute_ that Philippa wants to discard her previous assertion entirely and hold her tightly for the next eleven days, inconvenience be damned.

Michael raises her eyebrow, and Philippa realizes that she has been staring for several moments, and her face is more than a little bit warm.

“Don’t tell me this was a fantasy of yours,” Michael deadpans, and Philippa huffs and rolls her eyes.

“Keep that up, and you’ll never know any of my fantasies.” She tosses her head dramatically, and Michael smiles at it.

In the next moment, the smile trembles and peters out, and she lowers her head and tugs at the fabric of the leggings, eyes going weary and half-lidded.

“It’s funny, I…I haven’t worn clothes that fit in a long time, I was thinking to myself how tight these were, how maybe you’d gotten the specs wrong.” Michael shakes her head now, and her dark eyes glow in the lamplight. “Turns out…this is how they’re supposed to be.”

Philippa approaches Michael now, her heart aching only a little bit. “I can replicate something looser, if that would make you feel better.”

“No,” Michael shakes her head quickly in denial. Philippa stands only an inch or two away now, and is quite unable to stop one of her hands from tracing down the sleeve of Michael’s sweater. “I like them, they’re warm. They fit perfectly.”

Michael’s lips twitch into an amused half-smile. “Someone’s been paying attention.”

“Oh stop it, you.” Philippa wants to give her a playful shove, but remembers that the woman has just been released from the hospital for God’s sake. She settles for a light smack to Michael’s hip. “A simple _thank you_ would suffice.”

Michael smiles at that, but even as she does her dark eyes seem to grow heavy, and the smile slides off of her face. The reality of the past year bears down on the room, giving weight to the evening sun illuminating the living room and casting the kitchenette into shadow. Michael looks around the apartment now with a somewhat stunned expression, as if seeing it for the first time once more.

Philippa wants to take back her words immediately, but is uncertain if doing so would change anything.

“Thank you…” Michael finally murmurs, gratitude coloring her every syllable, every feature of her dark, beautiful face, and Philippa suddenly recalls Ash Tyler’s first week aboard the _Discovery_ after his liberation from L’Rell’s torture ship.

Wide-eyed, hands tracing over bulkheads and furniture as if worried they would disappear under a firm touch. Staring in awe at his replicated fruit and oatmeal for a full minute before finally eating it. Wandering around a holodeck program of Olympic National Forest, emerging almost eight hours later with tears streaking his face.

Philippa’s heart trembles. Watching Ash Tyler re-acclimate after his imprisonment had been hard enough, and they had known each other for less than a day. Michael’s rehabilitation might just be her undoing.

_But I wouldn’t want it any other way._

Trying for some levity, Philippa cups Michael’s face in one hand and pulls her gaze gently back to center.

“That’s more like it.”

Philippa accompanies the words with a teasing tilt of her head, and Michael smiles at it, her full lips quirking at the corners, dark eyes still shining with emotion. Tenderness wells in Philippa’s chest like a bubbling spring, and she pulls Michael in for a soft, soothing kiss.

Kissing Michael Burnham hasn’t yet lost its luster, and Philippa hopes that it never will. Her hands come up to both sides of Michael’s face, stroking soft skin still warm and moist from the shower, and Michael’s own hands slide up her biceps, one slipping to the back of her neck to play at the roots of her long hair. The fading summer sun setting the apartment aglow makes the whole affair seem much more cinematic than it actually is, but Philippa appreciates the efforts of Mother Nature herself to make hers and Michael’s first night together as magical as it may be.

With Michael’s lips on hers, the emotion in Philippa’s chest is both soothed and raging stronger than ever, and she cannot help but wonder, from somewhere far away from herself, how this could be possible.

_Paradoxes…_

Par for the course when in love with the woman who had reconciled the eternal mysteries of time and space from the confines of the three-dimensional.

The kiss ends, but Michael only pulls her in tighter, burying her face into Philippa’s shoulder, and Philippa clings fast. She nuzzles at the fleece of Michael’s sweater, the softest fabric she could possibly find to replicate, and breathes deeply in Michael’s scent, the one that casts her into the cosmos, to the _Shenzhou_ and the _Discovery_ , to Earth and Vulcan and all of the planets in between, across the stars and back to wherever Michael Burnham may be.

They stand like this for several long moments, until Philippa finally sighs and remembers just what she had been planning to do before Michael’s lips had distracted her.

“My turn,” she murmurs, referring to the shower, pulling away gently from the embrace. Michael nods softly at this and lets her go without a fight. Philippa sneaks a glance at her retreating form as she closes the bathroom door.

Bathed in orange sunlight, dark curls bouncing and refracting the beams just so, her body glowing in the dusky haze…

_Brighter than a yellow star, surely twice as radiant._

Philippa clicks the door shut before the sight renders her blind.

 

 

She pads out of the bathroom eighteen minutes later to see Michael sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Many times Philippa had come close to giving up this apartment, which had belonged to her mother during the final years of her life, but some irrational, sentimental part of her heart had always stopped her, and she is intensely grateful for it now. Of course, the person she was all those years ago could not have known that one day she would be bringing home a prisoner of war, a hero, a precious love who had not known the brightness of sunshine, nor the peace of the star-lit night sky in over a year.

But Philippa sends thanks to her past self nonetheless.

The sun has barely set, and the view of the ocean is dim and dusky in the twilight. The surrounding city lights flicker and glow, truly a man-made reflection of the cosmos.

“Enjoying yourself, my love?”

Her feet bring her to Michael’s side quickly, and Philippa drops to her knees in front of the window. Michael gazes up at her, and her dark eyes tremble with both contentment and exhaustion.

“Very much,” she murmurs, her head dropping gently against the glass for support.

Philippa smiles at the sight. “Are you planning on sleeping there?”

“Not planning…but it might happen anyway.”

“There’s a bed three meters away, Michael.”

“Didn’t want to just invite myself,” Michael states softly.

Smiling now, Philippa offers Michael her hand. “Well then…allow me to extend an invitation.”

She pulls the younger woman to her feet, not missing the way Michael’s knees tremble beneath her. Despite the verbal invitation, Michael seems to hesitate at the sight of the bed before her, and Philippa could kick herself at her assumption.

“If this makes you uncomfortable, I can sleep on the couch,” she offers gently.

Michael’s lips twitch at that.

“Making threats, Captain?” She takes a step closer, her heavy-lidded gaze warm with mirth. “I thought you _loved me_ …”

Philippa raises both eyebrows at the teasing, though this does nothing to stop her helpless smile. “ _You_ are in rare form tonight.”

“Well,” Michael acknowledges. “I have…one hell of a back-log.” Despite the levity of her tone, Philippa can hear just a trace of darkness beneath.

“Hey…” She drapes her arm around Michael’s waist and braces her chin on her shoulder. “I look forward to you getting caught up.”

Michael responds by lacing her fingers through Philippa’s and looking down at the ground almost shyly.

 _It’s bravado,_ Philippa realizes with a jolt. _All of it._

_She’s nervous._

And honestly, why shouldn’t she be? Philippa remembers that despite their deep friendship, she _has_ been Michael’s captain for the last seven years. Not something easily forgotten, past year of separation non-withstanding.

_I would be nervous too if my captain had brought me to her home and invited me to share her bed._

Of course, Captain Fielder would never have done such a thing; despite their acceptable working relationship, Philippa Georgiou and her CO had never managed to achieve anything resembling a friendship. But the point stands.

Philippa kisses Michael’s cheek, savoring the feeling of warm skin beneath her lips.

“It’s alright, Michael…we don’t have to right now…”

“But I want to.”

Michael’s voice is raw with need. She looks at Philippa and then away almost immediately, as if the sight of her face is too intense at the moment.

“I _really_ want to _…_ ”

Philippa holds her tighter, hoping it conveys some level of comfort. “So do I.” She murmurs. “I believe that puts us in agreement.”

“I suppose.” Michael acknowledges the point with a weak dip of her head. She takes a deep breath, and Philippa feels her spine straighten slightly, as if to shake off the nerves.

“So…which side is yours?”

The question is so devastatingly domestic that Philippa can’t help but grin. Michael seems to come to the same realization if the self-conscious, yet genuine smile is anything to go by.

“Whichever side you’re not on.” Philippa replies cheekily, and Michael huffs out a laugh at that.

Philippa notes, however, that she chooses the side that does not currently have a PADD on the nightstand next to it.

Even as she tucks herself in, she keeps half of her gaze on Michael, who seems to be committed to retaining every sensation she is currently experiencing. Her fingertips brush over the comforter, her eyes dart to the end of the bed, noting the shape her legs make beneath the blankets. She looks at the pillow for a long moment as if studying it, before finally laying her cheek upon the clean white fabric of the pillowcase. Even then, her eyes continue to tremble, wide and wondering at the onslaught of sensory information.

It’s both adorable and heartbreaking.

“Let me know when you are done running an observational analysis on every present aspect of this bed,” Philippa finally murmurs from her place beneath the covers, mere feet away from the woman who she longs to hold.

Michael casts a heavy-lidded, yet loving look in her direction. “If I were to run an observational analysis on _every_ present aspect of this bed, I suspect it would take far more than a lifetime.”

With that, Philippa’s brain short-circuits and remains offline for several long moments.

“Oh God dammit,” she finally mutters, and squirms across the feet of space between her and Michael until their bodies are flush.

They shift against each other until finally, finally Philippa’s are wrapped around Michael’s thin frame, Michael’s around hers. Philippa brushes her nose across Michael’s forehead, reveling in the feeling of thick curls dancing across her skin.

“Rare form, indeed.” She mumbles against Michael’s forehead. “I am too damn old to be swooning like an academy-green cadet.”

“ _Swooning_?” Michael pronounces the word teasingly, her breath brushing softly across Philippa’s neck. “I like the sound of that.”

Philippa huffs. “Of course you do.”

_A year of captivity and she bounces back like a twenty-third century Casanova._

The captain does not know whether she ought to be pleased or worried. She splits the difference and holds Michael tighter, scratching her fingernails across the woman’s shoulder blades in a soothing manner.

“I’m glad we seem to be making short work of your backlog.”

She feels Michael’s smile in the movement of her face. “I’ve barely started,” Comes the whispered response. She squeezes her arms a little bit tighter, and Philippa thinks that she might just melt into them.

“That feels nice, by the way…” Michael murmurs, referring the to movement of Philippa’s fingers across her upper back.

The innocent words hit Philippa right in the heart.

Love bubbles up in her chest, utterly uncontrollable, devastating and wonderful and _right_ , and she pulls Michael in tighter, as tight as she can, clutching her body with all of her might. Michael gasps slightly in surprise, but her arms grasp tighter as well. Weaker than they would have been a year ago, but Philippa feels strength in their grip nonetheless.

The gravity of the situation seems to hit both of them at the same time.

“ _I never thought I would have this_ ,” Philippa whispers desperately into Michael’s hair.

Michael’s response is hoarse with emotion. “ _Neither did I._ ”

Philippa wonders how she could be this unbearably close to Michael Burnham, but still not close enough.

“I love you so much,” she tries, but it isn’t quite enough to capture what she feels. Philippa tries again, in Malay, Mandarin, French, and when that doesn’t work either, Tellurian Pidgin, a phrase that she had heard in a song many years ago.

Michael murmurs “I love you too,” and repeats herself in two Vulcan dialects. Philippa feels her hands moving in their place behind her back, no doubt stringing the words together in Universal Sign Language.

She’d always loved watching Michael speak with her hands.

“I can’t…” Michael shakes her head weakly from her place in Philippa’s arms, her voice slightly muffled by Philippa’s chest. “The words are not sufficient, Philippa.”

Philippa lets out a watery chuckle. “Six languages between us, you would think it would be enough.”

“Seven.”

“Sorry?”

“Seven languages,” Michael repeats in a mellow murmur.

Philippa smiles softly. “I didn’t think the Vulcan dialects counted as two separate languages.”

“They don’t,” Michael answers, her tone heavy and serious. Philippa waits for her to clarify.

“I just… I don’t want to tell you I love you in Klingon.”

Philippa nods slowly in understanding.

“You don’t have to,” she replies, laying a soft kiss on Michael’s forehead. “Six languages is quite enough for me.”

She feels one of Michael’s hands sliding up her neck to card through her long hair, and the sensation makes her sigh with pleasure.

“Could you tell me something?” Michael asks.

“Mmm…depends on the something,” Philippa counters dreamily, still distracted by the sensation of Michael’s fingers at her scalp.

“Why were you trying so hard to stay away from me, those last two months on the _Shenzhou_?”

The name of her old ship, her old home, hits Philippa hard enough to distract her from the daze brought on by Michael’s stroking, and she swallows heavily before piecing together an answer.

“I was…scared.”

Michael’s fingertips stop their movement.

“Of what?”

Philippa snorts at that. For all of her fierce intelligence and her bravado Michael Burnham is still so utterly new to love. It’s genuinely adorable at times, if not a little bit frightening even now.

“Of what I felt for you, of course.”

“I… I don’t—“

“Oh Michael, you have not experienced enough of love and romance to understand how devastating it can be.”

Michael is quiet at that.

“Perhaps back then, yes,” she finally acknowledges. Philippa sighs at this, wondering what had changed between then and now, but knowing also that _everything_ had changed.

“It happened so fast. It was like I wasn’t, and then a switch flipped and suddenly…” Philippa’s mouth twitches at her past self’s blindness. “You were all I could see, all I could think about. It _terrified_ me, I had no time at all...”

“The night of your birthday…with the gravity emitters…”

“That was the night,” Philippa confirms. Michael twitches in her arms, and Philippa can feel her body loosen.

“I thought that it was me…” Michael whispers. “I thought…I thought I finally overplayed my hand, that I revealed too much—“

Philippa smiles. “Tension is never one-sided. And love so rarely is as well, even when one person is singularly devoted to not seeing it.”

“…Not seeing it?”

“You were my protégée, Michael,” Philippa murmurs. “You were my first officer…you are a great deal younger than me…” She sighs, hoping her words do not hurt. “It had been such a very long time since I felt for anyone what I felt for you, and considering our circumstances…”

She feels Michael nodding slowly in understanding.

“It is interesting…” Michael shifts slightly as she muses. “You were my mentor, my captain… _somewhat_ older than me—“

Philippa snorts softly at the weak attempt to not cause offense.

“I had never felt for anyone what I felt for you,” Michael finishes. “And yet…I never felt an ounce of fear.”

“You have never experienced heartbreak,” Philippa explains gently. Michael shakes her head in Philippa’s arms.

“I _had_ never experienced heartbreak.” She corrects, and Philippa knows that this is a topic that they will delve further into later. “I suppose…I can understand, then.”

“It’s so ironic,” Philippa sighs. “The day I finally accepted it was the day we beamed to the desert to restore the Crepusculan ecosystem.”

Michael is quiet at this, but Philippa can feel her throat move in a trembling swallow.

Philippa shakes her head sadly. “I thought we had more time, my love. I thought I would see you through to a captaincy, and perhaps take the chance once you were not under my command…once there was no risk of destroying the ship’s leadership should a relationship not work out.”

The admission hangs in the quiet night air of the apartment, the dim light of the city illuminating the room ever so slightly.

“ _I thought we had more time._ ”

Philippa’s whisper is bathed in agony.

“If I had known that—that it was the last day I would see you alive, the last day I had to talk to you—“

She feels Michael squirming against her body, moving to place their faces level.

“It’s alright…it’s alright…” Michael whispers, brushing her forehead against Philippa’s. “You couldn’t have known.” Her fingers tangle in Philippa’s hair once more, holding her tightly.

“After what I have been through, you would think I might have some inkling,” Philippa states bitterly. “Nothing is guaranteed, _nothing._ You wake up a diplomat and go to bed a soldier, your whole world burned to the ground, murdered in front of you—“

Michael cuts her off by pulling her in, and Philippa buries her face in the younger woman’s chest. She closes her eyes and imagines the heart beating somewhere beneath skin, bone, clothing.

“Was it…was it so hard?” Michael asks in a whisper, her voice small, vulnerable in the extreme. Philippa feels something burst from her chest, whether a laugh or a sob, she is quite uncertain.

“ _Was it---_ “ Philippa chokes on the words, disbelief crawling up her throat. Her fingers grip the back of Michael’s sweater in a vice. “I saw the corpse of my ship from the windows of an escape pod, over sixty percent of my crew dead or missing, T’Kuvma’s ship vanishing from the battlefield with _you on it_. I spoke at your funeral, Michael…”

Philippa’s voice cracks once more, remembering the agony of outliving her first officer, her friend, who had been so close to becoming a captain in her own right, the future laid before her, bright and glowing with promise. The brutal crush of letting her die on the Klingon flagship, failing her so completely _…_

_What right do I have to be comforted like this when all of what happened to her was my fault?_

But Philippa cannot bring herself to draw away, to pull back from Michael’s comforting embrace, to tell her in cold detail all of why she does not deserve this. The captain berates herself for this weakness, but resolves to tell Michael on some other night, some later time when the younger woman has gotten her strength back.

Then she will be able to walk away under her own power, rather than be trapped in an apartment with the woman who had caused her imprisonment.

“I didn’t realize,” Michael finally murmurs, and Philippa un-buries her head to give the younger woman a look of blatant disbelief.

“Are you kidding me?”

Michael’s dark eyes tremble. “After what I did, Philippa, how could I ever think—“

“After what _you_ did?” Philippa brushes a hand down Michael’s cheek. “A mutiny, done in a desperate attempt to save the ship? After you dying in the brig from my decision, you dying on T’Kuvma’s flagship, from _my de_ \---“

She cuts herself off, because it’s too soon, too _soon_ , she cannot talk about this yet.

“Like I said, Michael…I forgave you for the mutiny a long time ago. The second that knife pierced your body...”

Philippa’s hand runs down Michael’s back to the point where she estimates T’Kuvma’s knife had plunged. Michael gasps at the action; Philippa wonders for a brief moment if she’s overstepped, but Michael only snuggles in closer, clinging to her hard.

“Did you really think, for an entire year aboard that ship, that I was disappointed in you?” Philippa’s heart feels like it might break once more. “Did you think that I blamed you?”

Michael shakes her head, her sigh coming out shaky. “I don’t know what I thought…I don’t know anymore…”

“Let me set the record straight, then.” Philippa states. “I never blamed you. Never. Not for the war…not even for the mutiny…”

She senses Michael’s skepticism, and elaborates. “It felt like such a vicious betrayal at the time, but at the end of the day, all I could think was… _she was thinking like a soldier._ ” Philippa shakes her head. “Haven’t we put this to rest already?”

“Your words were said under duress,” Michael mumbles. “No doubt they were true, but the rationale behind them was unclear—“

“Oh stop it,” Philippa cuts her off, hesitating only one moment before bringing their lips together.

 _Gods,_ it felt so good.

It takes a great deal of effort for Philippa to pull away, but she manages. She braces her forehead to Michael’s and whispers against Michael’s lips. “All I ever wanted was to get you back, and I never stopped looking for you, _never_ …”

Michael’s body spasms against her, a silent, racking sob. She trembles hard against Philippa, and her gasp is muffled in the captain’s shirt. Philippa holds her tighter, and feels reciprocal tears welling in her eyes.

“I watched every interrogation…” Philippa whispers. “I studied the reports of every destroyed enemy vessel, every scrap of information, every useless piece of knowledge, if it would have pointed me in your direction...but it never did, it _never did_ …”

Michael sniffles from within Philippa’s tight hold. “No…it wouldn’t have. The secrecy of the project was…truly ridiculous.”

The project…

The war machine that Michael had made her own, the wormhole device that had ended the war with the Klingons in a near bloodless victory...

“You are brilliant, my love,” Philippa whispers. “Brilliant, brave, strong beyond belief…”

She punctuates the words with kisses to Michael’s forehead, both of her cheeks, and her lips come away wet and salty. Nevertheless, Philippa feels Michael’s reluctant smile in the trembling movement of her face.

“Careful…” She manages shakily. “You wouldn’t want me to get too confident now—“

“After what you did, I am not sure if such a thing exists,” Philippa counters, even as she realizes that Michael will likely use this particular statement against her for the rest of their days.

Judging from Michael’s watery grin, she has reached the same conclusion.

Shaking her head now, Michael’s eyes grow heavy and she buries her face into Philippa’s chest once more.

“I can’t believe I’m here…” Michael whispers. “I can’t…”

She could be talking about a great number of things, from her present occupation of half of Philippa’s bed to the world of the living itself. The vast duality of the statement breaks Philippa’s heart, but Michael’s presence in her arms, in this bed, in this apartment here on Earth quickly reassembles the pieces.

“You are,” Philippa murmurs back. “You are, you are, you are…”

Her words are promises, short and unbreakable, accompanied by gentle kisses pressed into Michael’s curly hair.

From the way Michael’s breathing seems to be slowing, she is falling asleep. Not an unexpected occurrence, honestly, Philippa is surprised she’s stayed awake this long.

But there is one more matter she should probably make known before Michael becomes firmly unreachable.

“Michael.” She gently shakes the younger woman.

“Mmm?”

“There is… well—…“ Philippa stutters, an unusual occurrence for her.

Michael says nothing, but the light tap to Philippa’s shoulder blade demonstrates that she is listening.

“I have been having…nightmares, as of late.” Philippa finally manages the statement, though she is not up to elaborating at the moment, not when the subject of said nightmares is on the verge of a peaceful sleep. “I just…I don’t want it to startle you—“

“Okay…” Michael mumbles. “It won’t… could sleep through anything…”

Philippa huffs her amusement at how true this is. The woman had practically slept through her own arrest.

“Wake me up though…if you want…” Michael finishes, her voice barely audible.

The offer is undeniably sweet, though Philippa doubts that she will take Michael up on it, certainly not tonight, with her exhaustion so obvious. Nevertheless, the kindness sends a pang through Philippa’s chest. Moisture wells in her eyes once more, and the captain cannot help but feel slightly annoyed at her own reaction.

_Get ahold of yourself, for God’s sake._

But then again, if there were any time, any place, any circumstance in existence where Philippa Georgiou might permit herself to cry at a tender offer of support, surely it would be this one.

Comfort and care from Michael Burnham, the person she loves more than anything, in this universe and all others.

How often had she imagined such a thing for herself, during the past year? Every moment she had spent brooding in Stamets’ lab after hours, the off-duty time between battles and infiltrations…certainly in the days after her agonizing torture at L’Rell’s hands, when she would wake up every two hours in a shaking sweat, the Klingon interrogator’s jagged teeth only inches from her face.

Michael is so close to her now, her expression smooth and peaceful in sleep, dark curls scattered across the pillow. Philippa reaches with a hesitant hand towards her face, as if to ensure that this whole situation is not a dream, that she will not wake up minutes from now, alone in her quarters on the _Discovery_ with another battle on the horizon.

With a touch so light it might as well be nothing at all, Philippa traces the curve of Michael’s eyebrow, down the expanse of her face, the side unmarked by the brutal fist of a Klingon warmonger.

Beautiful dark skin, warm with life.

Gratitude overwhelms Philippa, flooding her body like a tidal wave, nearly stifling her with its magnitude.

_One could live a thousand lifetimes and never be this lucky…_

Philippa wonders what she has done, in this life or any others, for the universe to see fit to bless her in this way.

She ponders this question as her eyes drift shut, Michael’s beautiful, peaceful face only inches from her own, and finally decides to not look a gift-horse in the mouth.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know anything about law/legal stuff, particularly in the Trek universe, so if anyone feels the need to call me out please do.
> 
> Also gonna up the rating to E preemptively. Y'know I always thought "E" on Ao3 meant "everyone", like in videogames.
> 
> I...was very wrong.


	19. Redemption and Forgiveness I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long.
> 
> Many thanks to LadyJanus, Ennerida, P_stellaviatori, aevee, and JoannaMRiddle for cranking out some Burnham/Prime!Georgiou fic in last the five-ish days. It's so nice to read stuff that I didn't write, really made me want to get my ass in gear.
> 
> Okay here we go.

 

 

Michael keeps a running log of each time she cries.

The first time, in sickbay on the _U.S.S. Discovery_ , breathing without pain and wrapped in the arms of the woman she loves, who had sworn to protect her from whatever may come.

She still cries about this from time to time.

 

The second, at the sight of Amanda Grayson’s kind face, viewed through eyes newly repaired via ocular regenerative surgery.

The relieved smile on Sarek’s face as he stood near the end of her hospital bed certainly contributed to the tears, though she knows that they will both pretend otherwise.

 

The third time, during her first Human meal eaten in her hospital bed, her first time ingesting something not only palatable, not only nutritious, but _tasty_ , in over a year.

Philippa had teased her gently about this as tears dripped down her cheeks, informing her that adding salt to peaches and chocolate pudding was not likely to make them taste any better.

Michael had been unable to form the response she had wanted to say, which was that even the saltiest peaches in the world would be far and away more edible than any of the Klingon foods that she had subsisted on during her imprisonment.

 

The sixth time, watching the various news channels of Earth, Tellar, Vulcan, and Andor, every single one hailing her as hero, interviews with various crewmembers of the _Discovery_ who had served with her back on the _Shenzhou_ , all offering nothing but praise and admiration.

Not a single one of them call her traitor, mutineer, _Maghwl’._

To them, she is the genius who reconciled time, space, and dimension. The captive who beat the Klingons at their own game. The woman who stared death in the face not only once but _twice_ and said “Not Today.”

 

The twentieth time, watching the sunset over the ocean from the windows of Philippa’s apartment on their first night together, quiet and still as she catalogued each and every sensation of the moment…

Clean and warm, wearing soft, well-fitting clothing, breathing easily…tired but in a peaceful, satisfied way, a far cry from the bone-numbing, unrelenting exhaustion of the preceding months.

Cared for, nurtured, _safe_ …

She had wiped the tears away quickly, having learned from experience that her crying tends to provoke a reciprocal reaction in the woman she loves.

 

 

 

 

There are times when she doesn’t cry.

The time she had returned to the apartment from a long day of taking in sunlight on the beach, only to find that Philippa had returned early. She supposes that the sight of a woman raised in a notoriously modest culture wearing a tank top and shorts had been somewhat shocking; nevertheless, dropping an entire handful of silverware seemed to her a bit of an overreaction.

This had not stopped Michael from laughing, nor Philippa from flushing adorably.

 

The time a group of women had walked up to her in a café near the ocean and thanked her profusely in accented English for her actions in ending the war.

Michael had been stunned speechless, only barely managing a weak nod of acknowledgment.

 

The third morning on Pulau Langkawi, when she had woken up in the dark and gone straight to the data-screen in the living room to continue unraveling the universe’s deepest mysteries.

Philippa had found Michael there three hours later, gently tugging her away from the screen and into the morning sunlight. It had taken another thirty minutes for the cold fear lacing Philippa's features to recede, after Michael had fully regained consciousness and realized that she had been speaking Klingon through the entirety of breakfast.

This had been the first of such occurrences, but certainly not the last.

 

The time long forecasted by Earth meteorologists, when the wreckage of the Battle for Earth in decaying orbit finally began to impact the atmosphere, creating a dazzling stellar display.  _Shooting stars_ , in layman’s terms, visible each night from anywhere on the planet with a clear sky.

Michael had averted her eyes the first time she had seen it, and has not looked up at the night sky since.

 

The first day of her court martial, on trial for the counts of mutiny and defection, the punishment for which is stripping of rank and decoration, as well as lifetime imprisonment.

Michael cannot manage to feel any particular sadness at this turn of events. She does not feel any real type of emotion, in fact, even as the judicial panel lobs criticisms at her, the opposing council levels accusations ranging from attempted murder to sleeping her way to the top.

The count of defection, at least, is simple enough to counter. Ambassador Sarek’s testimony is ironclad in its trustworthiness, and Michael cannot help the twinge of gratitude towards her foster father, who does not even bat an eye at the idea of admitting the existence of their katra-bond and its application during the war to Starfleet Judicial Council.

Yet as the trial wears on, as the starship debris falls to Earth, as the news cycles maintain their constant praise towards one Michael Burnham, the captive who never gave up, the genius who saved the Earth, the Woman Who Beat the Klingons, Michael herself finds that this court martial, this particular battle…

Is not one that she desires to win.

The reasoning for this is somewhat nebulous, as she pointedly looks away from these particular feelings during her daily meditations.

 _An odd type of cowardice from the woman who won the Klingon War,_ she considers sardonically.

Day after day, she sits quietly, answering all questions with brief, barely-there responses, feeling supremely uncomfortable clad in the Starfleet uniform that she is required to wear during her sessions in court.

Captain Philippa Georgiou is busy with a great many other matters, first and foremost the task of clearing Michael’s name in the eyes of the media, as well as raising hell at Starfleet Command with the remnant crew of the _U.S.S. Shenzhou._ Thus, what time they have together once the trial begins is scant, and Michael is uncertain whether to be grateful or disappointed at this.

Captain Georgiou is barred from observing the majority of the proceedings, minus those in which she takes the stand as a witness; still, the woman possesses loyal sources at every level of Starfleet command, not to mention her well-known friendship with one Admiral Katrina Cornwell, and her awareness of the overall situation is not one that should have taken Michael by surprise.

Nevertheless, when Michael returns to her temporary quarters in one of the many Starfleet-owned apartment complexes in Paris, France, the heart of the United Federation of Planets, on Day Eight of the trial, she is both astonished and afraid to see Philippa already there, with anger coming off of her body in waves.

The legal PADDs scattered on the coffee table allude to a more rational reason for her presence, but this is clearly taking a backseat to the storming emotion evident in the clench of Philippa’s jaw and the trembling of her form.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

Philippa’s voice is flat, but fury coils beneath it. Michael flinches at the woman’s ire, the coldness in her syllables, even though she understands it to be well deserved.

“I understand that you are tired, Michael, but for God’s sake you are _throwing_ your trial!” Philippa’s hands gesticulate sharply front of her. “Do you want to go to prison?!”

 Michael opens and closes her mouth, but no words come out.

“Why do you just sit there and allow them to maneuver you?” Philippa demands. “I have seen you win arguments against entire councils of politicians, I know you can do better!”

Michael’s jaw trembles, and she pulls her arms up to wrap around her midsection. She understands that this is a shrinking maneuver, and an obvious one at that, but cannot bring herself to stop.

Philippa takes a step towards her, and Michael can hear her manage several deep breaths, no doubt trying to control her temper.

“What is going on with you?”

Philippa’s voice is softer now, but somehow this only makes it more cutting.

Michael swallows, but this does nothing to control the distress bubbling up in her stomach. She manages a trembling shake of her head before backing away, trying her best to look anywhere but in Philippa’s direction.

“Michael?”

Michael’s retreat takes her right into one of the apartment walls, leaving her with nowhere to go, _nowhere to go—_

By the stars, she had never anticipated having the time to think about this, to really _think_ about it, and now that she does it is quickly becoming all she can think about. The war machine, the wormhole device, the failsafe, the remnants of the Klingon vessels raining down upon the planet in a near-constant meteor shower, children dancing on the beach in the light of the flaming fragments, glorifying the destruction, _celebrating_ the hailstorm of death—

“Michael…”

The trial, the damn _trial_ …

The thought that she could possibly wear a Starfleet insignia once more, that she could serve on a Starfleet ship, spreading the message of peace and hope, unity and equality, the idea that she could be found not guilty, when she is so _fucking guilty—_

“Michael…”

_Il’Ran, Josso, Klun, Ekhol, Vara, T’naar, Rahv—_

“ _Michael!_ ”

Firm hands grasp her biceps, jarring Michael out of her black whirlwind of thoughts. With a start, Michael realizes that she has been still and staring for too long, and Philippa has been stating her name with increasing desperation.

“Please, Michael, you’re scaring me.” Philippa’s voice is an urgent whisper. “Come back, wherever you are, please come back.”

_Wherever I am…_

Michael manages a steady breath. And another.

Not in space, she breathes. Not on a Klingon vessel.

Her dark eyes peer over Philippa’s shoulder, roving over the utilitarian features of this Starfleet-owned apartment. Neutral colors, square furniture, pale carpeting…afternoon sunlight beaming in through the west-facing windows, the pale gray spires of the distant city providing a grounding backdrop.

_Paris, France._

_Earth._

“I don’t want to do this, Philippa.”

Michael’s tone is steady, but the words seem to come from somewhere very far away, like she is shouting them through a long tunnel.

Philippa nods gently from where she stands a mere two feet away, looking only a little bit heartbroken. “I know that, Michael, I know. And it is so unfair that you should have to--“

“But it isn’t,” Michael denies in a whisper.

Philippa cocks her head at this, confusion creasing her beautiful features.

“I—“ Michael’s hand comes up to her chest as if to keep her body from bursting into fragments, shattering into rubble, like the _nine hundred and eighty five Klingon cruisers_ —

“I am… _guilty_ , Philippa, of all that they say I am guilty of—“

 “No.” Philippa shakes her head firmly. “No, you are not---“

Michael plows forward in a broken voice. “I _did_ mutiny, and I _did_ defect, my actions caused the deaths of so many—“

“How many times must I tell you this, Michael?” Philippa cuts her off, frustration obvious in her voice. “This war was not your fault, it would have happened with or without the mutiny, and you _did not defect—_ “

“So many are dead because of me…” Michael whispers, feeling nauseous and panicked at the same time, Philippa’s words go right over her head, not even close to being comforting. She pictures the rubble of the destroyed Klingon warships, still floating in space, burning up in the atmosphere every day and night in a near perpetual meteor shower.

_So many of them…_

“Michael…it was not your fault, this war…” Philippa speaks to her slowly, slowly, like Michael is a cornered animal ready to flee. “It would have happened no matter what, T’Kuvma was looking for any reason for a fight, if not you then someone else—“

Michael shakes her head violently, anger rising in her chest, because Philippa isn’t _getting it._

“That’s not _it,_ Philippa,” Michael grates out, pain welling in her chest. “I’m not talking about the-- the binary stars…”

 She scoots away from Philippa’s grip and slips out from against the wall, venturing into the living room in an attempt to find some open space, somewhere less stifling. Michael had never wanted to talk about this, but she has a very strong feeling that she will not escape this apartment until she does.

Philippa Georgiou is well known for her stubborn tenacity.

“Then what are you talking about, Michael?” Philippa demands from somewhere behind her. “If not the binary stars, then what? What on Earth do you have to be so guilty about?”

Michael stops in her tracks. She turns around slowly to stare at Philippa in blatant disbelief.

“ _How_ —“ She shakes her head, closes her eyes, takes a breath, and tries again. “How could you possibly think that I am so innocent?”

 

_Who on Earth have we become?_

 

Michael takes a step back. Then another. Her breath stutters in her chest, and the knowledge of what she has done breaks over her like a clap of thunder.

“Il’ran.”

She blurts out the word, her dark face trembling. “The Klingon tech who prevented my torture at T’Kuvma’s hands, after he came seeking revenge for L’Rell’s death.” Michael shakes her head at the memory, and feels her eyes burning at the implication. “Rahv, the physicist who got the worst of the beatings to stop when it became clear that I was falling apart.”

Now that she’s started, it seems she cannot stop. “There was…V’Shell, she pushed whatever plant matter she could find at me, even if it was inedible. T’Naar, he scrounged up some crude medication for me when the pneumonia set in. He had _three daughters_ …”

Michael’s hands come up to cover her mouth, and her entire body trembles _._ “They weren’t all _monsters_ , Philippa, not even close…but…I killed all of them anyway!”

“… _Michael_ …” Philippa murmurs. Her voice is coming closer, Michael can hear her footsteps approaching.

“The wormhole device, the failsafe that _I_ programmed.” Michael’s jaw clenches, she pulls her hands away from her face and her eyes swim with angry tears. The next words come out as a strangled whisper.

An apt description, from the way her throat seems to be closing up.

“Nine hundred and eighty-five cruisers…well over _sixty_ _thousand_ Klingons, many of them guilty of nothing at all…but all of them dead…at my hands.”

So many lives snuffed out, so many sentient beings condemned to the void without even the barest knowledge of their approaching doom. Warriors, techs, scientists, gunners… _people,_ with families, with parents and children, hopes and dreams--

The very idea makes Michael want to retch. She looks at her hands now, like she can somehow see the blood upon them.

“How could I ever… _ever…_ wear a Starfleet uniform again after what I have done?”

She’s jolted out of her thoughts when Philippa grabs the sides of her face in both of her hands. “You listen to me, Michael,” Philippa whispers fiercely from less than a foot away. “Whatever you did, you did to end the war, and there is no other way you could have done so. _None._ ”

Philippa’s voice is firm, but trembles underneath. She holds eye contact, and Michael gasps at the brutal honesty behind her gaze.

“Nothing but total, complete annihilation of their forces would have stopped the Klingons, do you hear me? _Nothing._ ” Philippa runs gentle fingers across the skin above Michael’s ears. “What you did killed well over sixty thousand Klingon troops, this is true, but had you not done it, they would have killed everyone on Earth, _eight billion people…_ you are good at math, Michael, surely you can understand the net gain.”

Michael smiles weakly at that, twin tears falling from each eye. Philippa’s hands trail downwards to cradle her face, and Michael brings her own hands up to cover them.

“ _Oh my love, if I could have protected you from this, I would have in a heartbeat.”_

Philippa’s murmur is low and filled with grief. Michael’s heart feels like it might burst open.

“ _I wish I didn’t have to do it,_ ” Michael whispers, bringing her forehead to touch Philippa’s.

“You have always done what you had to do, Michael. Never more, never less.” Philippa pulls her face away only slightly in order to make full eye contact. “You make the difficult choices seem easy with how you firmly you commit to them. It is something I have always admired about you.”

Philippa huffs now, shaking her head slightly. “It’s how I know you would have made a great captain.”

The “would have” carries a blatant negative implication, something that Philippa apparently realizes, for she breaks eye contact immediately after saying it. Nevertheless, Michael takes absolutely no offense, and smiles weakly at the praise.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, feeling a brief spike of happiness at her captain’s compliments, a joy that cuts through the massive weight of her guilt.

Closing her eyes now, Michael slides one of Philippa’s hands down her face to her mouth to lay a kiss on the skin of her palm. The burden of over sixty thousand souls weighs heavy on her heart, but the forgiveness of the woman she loves is a soothing balm for the burning, festering grief.

“But I think you give me too much credit…” Michael continues, her eyes still closed, her head still resting in Philippa’s hand. “It’s easy to commit to an action when you know you will never have to live with the consequences.”

There’s silence between them now. Michael can feel Philippa’s stare from less than a foot away.

“Okay,” Philippa finally states, “you’ve lost me now, Michael.”

Michael can’t help a weak smile at her huffing tone and un-amused expression.

“I wasn’t supposed to survive…” Michael presses her cheek harder into Philippa’s palm to remind herself that she _had._ “I ran so many simulations of that day…I was never supposed to survive, and I had made peace with that. I was _happy_ about it…I would never have to live with the knowledge of what I had done.”

She opens her eyes now to see Philippa’s dark eyes looking back at her, swimming in utter bewilderment.

“What?” Michael asks.

“Well you keep saying, over and over, that you genuinely did not expect to survive that day, and yet you built a _slugthrower,_ Michael…” Philippa looks askance at her. “And that knife…those don’t seem like the actions of someone going calmly to her death.”

Michael’s arms drop to her sides as if severed.

By the stars, she had never, ever known how she was going to tell Philippa this. Her captain who had always chosen hope, chosen _life,_ even in the face of tremendous loss…

_“You are brilliant, my love. Brilliant, brave, strong beyond belief…”_

The memory of Philippa’s whispered praise washes over her now, and Michael fortifies herself with the words, wanting more than anything to be worthy of them, to be the woman that Philippa Georgiou seems to think that she is.

“You misunderstand my intentions,” Michael manages to whisper. Philippa’s only response is a raised eyebrow, gesturing for her to go on.

Michael opens her mouth, hesitating as she searches for the right words.

“A critical aspect of all life-saving systems is…redundancy.”

A scientific approach, the old stand-by, and Michael is grateful for it now. “True of every starship, every starbase, every system ever built to protect humanoids from the void. Back-ups, in case the first or the second or the third line of defense were to fail. With all of this being known…”

Michael gathers up every bit of courage that she has left in her to look Philippa squarely in the eye.

“Why would I build a slugthrower with only one slug?”

The implication echoes like a crack of distant thunder.

From the way Philippa’s face pales, Michael knows that she understands.

“You were going to use it on yourself.”

Michael nods slowly, slowly, one hand coming up to grasp at her collar in a subconscious attempt to anchor herself in the present, in this Starfleet-issue apartment in Paris, France, Earth.

“I didn’t know what form my execution would take, what my captors would decide, but I was quite certain that it would be public, and…humiliating. I couldn’t let that come to pass, Philippa…”

Philippa only shakes her head in denial, her jaw quivering.

Desperate justifications spring to Michael’s lips now. “I didn’t see another way, I never planned to save myself, I…I—“ Michael stammers, attempting to swallow her panic. “I didn’t even know would be possible _,_ I didn’t know he would try to kill me himself, alone in a locked room, how could I have known—“

“W-What about the knife?” Philippa’s voice trembles. “You had a knife, Michael, why?”

Michael shrugs helplessly at the question. “It just-- …seemed like a wise thing to have on a ship full of Klingons.”

Philippa gapes.

“ _Oh, my_ —“

She cuts off with an angry shake of her head. Her hands spring up to clasp firmly around Michael’s biceps, then cup her face in a shaking grip, and before Michael can blink Philippa’s arms are wrapped around her, her head buried. Michael is uncertain, but she’s willing to hazard a guess that the unintelligible syllables currently muffled by her own left shoulder are a long string of invectives in all of the four languages that Philippa knows.

In dim response to the embrace, her own hands come up to tangle in Philippa’s inky black hair, but before she can make much of a study on the sensation, Philippa is pushing her away.

“ _What-_ “

“You…” Philippa clenches her jaw, tears welling in her dark eyes. “Oh _Michael…_ ”

Philippa’s arms wrap around her again, squeezing so hard that Michael can barely breathe. But she finds the tight hold to be incredibly comforting, and her own arms come up to wrap around her captain’s slender frame. Her grip is not quite so strong, but she holds fast anyway.

Michael closes her eyes and wonders how unrealistic it would be to stay here forever, or at least until the trial concludes.

“I am so _fucking_ glad your plan did not come to pass.” Philippa’s voice is a fierce whisper. “Perhaps this is selfish of me, if you so desperately wanted to not live with this pain, but I will not apologize for it. I will tell you this every day, every hour if I must but Michael, I am so _happy_ you are alive…”

Michael inhales the words, allows them to impact her heart and spread through her bloodstream like a particularly gentle medicine.

“If I could carry this burden for you, I would…as much as you would give me, I would take it, if only that would make it easier for you to live with the knowledge…”

Philippa’s murmur is soft and gentle, so _gentle_. Michael basks in the love in her voice, wrapping the emotion over and around her soul before finally disappearing into it altogether.

This, all of this, it’s so damn _much_ …the warmth of this apartment, the sun shining through the long windows, breathing without pain, wearing soft clothes that fit properly, Philippa Georgiou’s arms wrapped around her, Philippa’s scent, her forgiveness, her pride, her grief, her love…

_All of it…for me…_

The tears start now, welling in Michael’s eyes and cascading down her cheeks like a flood, even though her face remains still. Droplets gather at her chin and fall to the carpeted floor, but Michael remains unmoved.

It’s a bizarre way to cry, Michael knows this. She wonders if it is some side effect of captivity, or of murdering so many in such a short span of time. Nevertheless, the tears feel like a bloodletting, almost as if she is releasing the guilt from her eyes, from her nose in a cleansing act of purification.

Michael dimly registers Philippa retreating further into the apartment, returning with a cloth from the kitchenette to dab at her eyes, at her cheeks, at her chin where the teardrops are gathering. Philippa’s eyes swim with tears as well, but she brushes them away almost absently, before they can fall. Her jaw is clenched, and Michael senses that it is taking a great deal of effort for her to keep her face from crumpling altogether.

“I’m sorry,” Michael manages, hating to see the woman she loves upset because of her.

“Don’t you fucking apologize!” Philippa grates, wiping at her eyes impatiently. “Not to me, _I should be the one apologizing_ —“

She cuts herself off. Michael looks at her in confusion, but Philippa only shakes her head, running a trembling hand behind her neck.

“Some other time,” she whispers in a haunted tone.

Michael does not understand what she is talking about, but she is too emotionally exhausted to spend much effort trying to solve this particular mystery.

Physically exhausted as well, from the act of standing so long and under such intense emotional distress. Her legs tremble, and she reaches towards the couch to steady herself.

“Easy…” Philippa is at her side in a moment, taking her hands, guiding her around the couch with such tenderness that Michael’s heart aches with it.

She wonders if she will ever get used to this treatment, to this care and warmth and demonstrated devotion from the woman who has always been her hero, her inspiration. An impossible dream, always so close and yet just out of reach…a shooting star, a dazzling stellar phenomenon, a brilliant light that Michael would happily bask in for the rest of her days.

Now that this dream has actually come to pass, Michael occasionally wonders if she did, in fact, die on T’Kuvma’s flagship, and everything since then has just been a manifestation of the Human idea of heaven.

Philippa sits and pulls her legs up onto the cushions in a smooth motion. She pats the area between them, and Michael climbs gratefully into her captain’s embrace, her head coming to settle on Philippa’s chest. Her own arms wrap around the other woman, who shifts slightly to allow the motion.

And there they remain, legal PADDs nearby but wholly forgotten.

Michael muses on her present situation, encased in Philippa’s deceptively strong arms, both of them curled up on the couch in the afternoon sunlight. She blinks when she realizes that she does not have any real experience in this area. Sex, yes, but this particular type of intimacy, not so much. Thus, Michael cannot be fully certain if her intense desire for physical affection, for touch and embrace and pressure and (damn the Human term) _cuddling_ , are a result of the past year of horror, or if they are merely who she is as a significant other.

Perhaps she will never truly know.

The arms around Michael’s body tighten their grip slowly, slowly. She feels Philippa squeezing hard, pulling her closer in the flex of her core muscles, the press of her face into Michael’s curly hair.

“ _Thank you for coming back to me, my love_.”

The whisper sounds like music, and Michael closes her eyes as the melody warms her heart and cuts through the weight of her grief. She breathes in Philippa’s perfect scent, safety and love, courage and kindness, and matches her breaths to the steady rhythm of her heart.

Long fingers scratch tenderly between Michael’s jutting shoulder blades, and the sensation is enjoyable.

Michael breathes, feels, and her brain goes still. 

…

“Philippa?”

“Hm?”

“I think…maybe I'm happy to be alive.”

Philippa snorts at that. It’s a slightly congested sound, leading Michael to believe that she may be tearing up again.

“Glad to hear it.”

Without looking, Michael reaches up to Philippa’s face and brushes the tears away with her thumb. Philippa allows this for several moments, before grabbing the fingers in her own hand and interlacing them with her own.

They lay quiet and still for several minutes.

Michael closes her eyes, and the question that has been mulling in the quiet corners of her brain for many weeks finally, _finally_ attains physical form.

“Who have we become?”

Michael’s question could be rhetorical.

But it isn’t.

“I was a xenoanthropologist…I wanted to understand alien cultures, I wanted to promote peace and unity…” Michael shakes her head in genuine bewilderment. “I never wanted this.”

_I never wanted to become Death, Destroyer of Worlds._

Philippa’s arms only hold her tighter. “I know, Michael. I never wanted this either.”

Something dark lurks beneath her voice, and suddenly, Michael remembers the stories that Detmer and Saru had told her as she lay in her hospital bed at Starfleet medical. The stories of Captain Philippa Georgiou, _the Ghost Captain_ , the terror of the Klingon forces, raining death and destruction upon any who crossed her path…

She blinks at the realization that she was not the only one whose principles had been corrupted by the demands of war.

“And yet…” Philippa continues. “You are still _you_ , Michael.”

Michael looks up at her now, question evident in her eyes.

“They held you captive for over a year…they killed your _family_ , and yet…you still feel compassion for them.” Philippa shakes her head in amazement. “Do you not see how incredible that is?”

“Well they are _people_ ,” Michael denies softly. “Aggressive and violent, but…people, nonetheless. And it’s not as though Humans haven’t committed their fair share of atrocities.”

She shrugs now, as best she can while wrapped in Philippa’s arms.

“How else would I feel?”

Philippa huffs at this, shaking her head and looking away, out the windows into the summer sunlight. Michael watches from where her head lies on Philippa’s chest. She takes in the storm of emotions cascading through Philippa’s delicate features, the soft blink of her eyes, the trembling of her pale pink lips…

“What?” Michael asks.

“Just listen to yourself.”

Philippa ducks her head, a soft smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“Whatever this war made you do… _it is not who you are, Michael_.”

Michael considers the words from where she lies wrapped in her captain’s arms, bathed in warm afternoon sunlight.

_Could this possibly be true?_

Michael understands that her captain has seen far more of horror and death than she has. She is an experienced soldier, and certainly no stranger to the demands of war. Thus, rationally, _logically_ …

Wouldn’t Philippa know exactly what she is talking about?

Michael takes the words and repeats them in her mind, over and over like a mantra. She knows that this will certainly not be the last time she does so; indeed, this may very well be the only mantra she will ever use, from this very moment until such a time as her life finally draws to a close.

_Whatever this war made you do…It is not who you are …_

Her captain has no reason to lie to her.

_Logically…it must be true._

Michael Burnham looks forward to the day when her Human heart falls into line with her Vulcan reasoning.

And despite the cathartic nature of this encounter, Philippa's healing words and her forgiveness, Michael understands that that particular day will be a long time coming, and will no doubt involve a great deal of counseling and meditation, time and reparations.

But this is a start.

A merciful, restorative, necessary start.

Finally Philippa sighs, the sound cutting through the stillness of the moment.

“I know you are tired of fighting, Michael…and it truly is unfair that you should have to do so once more, but _I need you to._ ”

Michael considers this from the wonderful safety of her captain’s embrace.

“I cannot let them take you away from me again.” Philippa drops a kiss on the back of her hand, and several more across her knuckles.

“They won’t,” Michael counters. “They can’t put me in prison, it would be publicity suicide. And you know it.”

“That does not stop me from being completely terrified,” Philippa admits, and Michael’s eyebrows furrow so deeply they seem to meet in the middle of her forehead. She looks up from her position curled into Philippa’s chest and stares at the woman in disbelief.

Philippa rolls her eyes at the expression. “Believe it or not, Michael, I _do_ get scared from time to time. Not _often_ , naturally, but…” She looks away now. “I believe that only makes it worse when it does happen.”

 _And she_ does _look scared,_ Michael observes. Anxious as well, from the way Philippa is beginning to tense in their embrace.

“It’ll be alright, Philippa, I’m not going anywhere—“

“You’ll understand if I find that hard to believe after the past year…after the past fucking _month_ ,” Philippa snaps, referring to the events of the Battle for Earth.

 Michael looks up at her in surprise. Upon seeing the strain on Philippa’s beautiful features, she starts to process the situation in her mind.

_This entire year, she has thought me dead or about to die no less than three times…four if you count the depressurization of the brig…_

Michael blinks, because for all of her own suffering in the past year, it had never really occurred to her that Philippa was anything less than safe. Despite being on the forefront of the war, the woman had had a miracle ship, a talented crew, and her own vast experience as a captain and a soldier. The thought of anything snuffing out Philippa Georgiou’s brilliant life had made no utter sense to Michael, thus she had not wasted much time or energy worrying about it.

She imagines how she would have felt, had their positions during the past year been reversed, and is somewhat astonished at her intense, howling _agony_ at the very idea of the woman she loves held captive for so long, under such intense physical and mental strain.

_And Philippa lived with it for nearly a year…_

“I am so sorry you had to go through all of that.” Michael shakes her head sadly. “So _sorry…_ ”

Philippa’s body trembles, her arms tighten their grip in a protective way.

“Gods, Michael, you have _no_ idea what living with that kind of terror does to someone--“

Michael squirms up her body, not easy an easy task considering the strength of the arms curled around her body.

“Hey, it’s okay…” She places a kiss on Philippa’s forehead, the bridge of her nose, and finally her lips. “I’m here now…”

“And I need you to _stay here_ , Michael,” Philippa whispers, anguish plain in her lilting voice, in the set of her jaw and the tremble of her lips. “How can I possibly make this more clear? _I can’t lose you again.”_

Michael blinks as she processes this, mere inches from Philippa’s beautiful face. Her wet eyes swirl with a devastating mix of emotions…pain and loss, fear and vulnerability.

The sight is almost too much for Michael to look at directly, and it takes her a moment to remember that her captivity-damaged retinas have long since been repaired.

She swallows shakily, considering how she ought to respond to this...to all of this.

 

...

 

“I really...don’t care...at all...about going back to Starfleet.”

A deliberate blunting of her true feelings on the matter.

“Alright.”

Michael's eyebrows raise sky-high, the disbelief too intense to be physically contained.

“You’re…okay…with that?”

Philippa’s mouth works as she considers her reply.

“What matters to me is that you get what you deserve…as a war hero—“ Michael opens her mouth to deny this, but Philippa cuts her off quickly. “The person who ended a galactic war single-handedly, from captivity _…_ ”

Michael nods in reluctant acknowledgement of this fact and allows her to continue.

“Gods, it’s such an insult that they should be doing this you…” Philippa mutters. “It should damn well be your choice whether or not to return to Starfleet.”

Michael shakes her head wearily. “After all I have been through, all I have _done_ …do you really think it matters to me that much?”

“That is not the point, nor is it at all comforting.”

Michael sighs at the response, dropping her head onto Philippa’s collarbone in sheer exhaustion at this line of conversation. She breathes in Philippa’s scent, drawing strength from her presence, her love, fortifying herself as best she possibly can.

She breathes, counts, and drops into a light meditation as the light of Sol pierces the windows, illuminating the couch and its occupants in a peaceful glow.

In…and out.

In…and out.

“I’m tired, Philippa _._ ”

Philippa’s arms tighten their hold. “I know… _I know_ , and I’m sorry.”

In…and out.

“I…I love you.”

Saying the three words is still slightly terrifying, still elicits a swooping sensation in Michael’s stomach, but she reasons that since she herself cherishes each and every time Philippa says this to her, surely the reverse must be true.

“I love you too,” comes Philippa’s whispered response, and Michael wonders why she had been at all worried. “So very much.”

In…and out.

“I’ll fight…if it means so much to you, then…I’ll fight.”

Philippa’s body seems to relax immediately, the breath leaving her chest in a long sigh. “Thank you…” She nuzzles her nose into Michael’s hair. “Thank you thank you thank you…”

The whispered words and tangible relief bring a smile to Michael’s lips. A burst of warm affection blooms in her chest, and she holds Philippa’s slender frame a little closer. Whether it was the crying or the forgiveness, Philippa's protective embrace or her soothing words, Michael has to admit that she feels far better than she had upon entering the apartment a mere thirty minutes ago.

Far better than she has in a long while, truth be told.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you earlier,” Philippa mumbles. “I was—“

“Scared.” Michael completes with a nod. “I understand.”

Philippa smiles softly at this, before rubbing Michael’s back briskly as if to shake off the hefty emotional conversation. “But believe it or not, I _did_ have a rational reason for breaking into your quarters.” She gestures with her head towards the legal PADDs stacked on the coffee table.

Michael sighs as she gazes at the PADDs. “I suppose it was remiss of me to hope for a slightly more scandalous motivation for your break-in.”

Philippa snorts. “My presence here is technically illegal by Starfleet judicial law, you understand that, don't you?”

“Wow…” Michael raises her eyebrows. “The opposing witness herself, here to help me outmaneuver her in court.” She shakes her head ruefully at how ludicrous life seems to have become. “How did we get here?”

“Well, I believe it all started when a certain _someone_ threw herself through a hole in the universe, before promptly losing consciousness on the bridge of my ship.”

A reluctant smile tugs at Michael's lips at the recounting. 

“I am…almost positive that there were several intermediate steps between those two occurrences.”

Philippa tosses her head airily, dark eyes sparkling with wry humor. "Oh, who could really say?” 

“Your entire bridge crew, perhaps?” Michael suggests.

“ _Lies_ and slander, all of it.” Philippa’s denial is immediate, and Michael leans in ever so slightly, the opening obvious.

“Would a reminder help to jog your memory?”

Philippa smiles, her cheeks dimpling rather attractively.

“Well…” She appears to think on this. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

With that, Michael closes the distance between their lips.

Kissing Philippa Georgiou is everything Michael had imagined it to be, and many more things besides that. This particular kiss is soft and peaceful, illuminated by the light of Sol, the low rumble of thousands of beings going about their business audible through the open windows, a vibrant Human city bustling with life…

Lives that…

… _that_ …

Michael breaks the kiss suddenly at the striking realization, and Philippa gives a soft mewl of protest.

It’s alarmingly cute, but Michael’s thoughts are elsewhere at the moment. She gazes out of the windows with wide eyes, taking in sunlight, airy Human buildings and the river Seine.

“I saved a lot of people, didn’t I?” The words come out in a confused rush.

Philippa chuckles softly, though she still looks somewhat dazed. “Yes, Michael, you did.”

Michael struggles for a response, her mouth opening and closing in astonishment. She looks from Philippa’s amused face to the windows, then back again, trying to distill her swirling thoughts into something resembling rationality.

It’s a lost cause.

Finally, she manages a weak “Okay…” and Philippa laughs at it, her dark eyes crinkling with mirth.

“Your eloquence is stunning, my love.”

Michael manages a soft smile at the endearment. “Well, if both of us were given to wordiness, how would we ever get anything done?”

“I think there is an insult in there somewhere,” Philippa observes, but there’s no bite in it. Instead, she pulls Michael’s face closer to place a light kiss on her nose. Michael ducks her head at the affectionate action, and it takes a great deal of effort not to blush.

_How lucky I am that I get to have this with her._

“Now stop trying to distract me.” Philippa glances pointedly at the coffee table. “We have legitimate work to do.”

“This is…so very illegal,” Michael murmurs as she takes in the PADDs, but there’s no real admonishment in the statement.

“You broke the laws of physics itself to escape captivity, Michael.” Philippa’s voice is low and serious now, and Michael drinks in her beautiful features mere inches away. “Starfleet be damned, I am hardly above breaking a few silly Human laws to keep you here.”

And God knows Michael Burnham is tired beyond belief, weary from the burden of tens of thousands of souls upon her shoulders. No doubt she will be forever changed by her year of Klingon captivity, her mass-murder of an entire enemy armada, and her journey through the realm of the fourth-dimension; nevertheless, she cannot help but take comfort in the fact that some things will always, _always_ be the same.

Namely, her complete and utter inability to allow such an obvious comeback to pass her by.

“Who are you, and what have you done with Philippa Georgiou?”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God Michael is tough. This was supposed to be angsty and hurt/comfort-y, but I'm incapable of writing these two without some level of banter. I hope the overall tone doesn't come off weird.
> 
> I originally planned on 2 wrap-up chapters after the reunion on the bridge, and then I realized I can't just keep my main characters apart for sixteen chapters while putting them through hell, and only give them 2 chapters together at the end.
> 
> So...I am learning a lot about writing about feelings.


	20. Redemption and Forgiveness II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you ever just...edit and reread something so much the voices sort of swim together and you lose all connection with it? Ugh.
> 
> Well here you go anyway. I watched The Final Recipe today, which features Michelle Yeoh in glasses (my favorite Michelle), so that inspired me to finish this damn chapter and post it.

 

 

_The Klingon bridge sensors howl, a thoroughly alien sound. Fires are everywhere, the lights a dull yellow-brown, but through the dimness, a Klingon’s white skin glows above her._

_-knife falling-_

_-phaser charging-_

_-too slow-_

_The white Klingon falls sideways, struck down by a rain of phaser fire to his skull._

_-turning-_

_-phaser snaps up-_

_T’Kuvma looms behind Michael like a shade, blade poised._

_-can’t kill him can’t kill him save her save save her-_

_Michael jerks, the mek’leth piercing her body clean through._

_-shot goes wide-_

_-T’Kuvma grins-_

_-Michael’s eyes go still-_

_-face slack-_

_-Phaser clatters to the deck-_

With an anguished yell, Philippa Georgiou jerks awake. She gasps for breath as she sits up, shaking from head-to-toe. The surroundings are disorienting, and it takes Philippa several moments to withdraw from her own subconscious.

Darkness…not the sanguine, murky darkness of the Klingon bridge, but the wholesome, clean darkness of a Human living space.

Windows…floor to ceiling windows, with a view of the glowing city across the river Seine.

_That’s odd…_

Philippa’s brow furrows. She prefers to sleep in total darkness, and typically turns the window shading to maximum, whether in space or on-planet.

But no, she doesn’t do that these days because Michael likes to see her surroundings…

Michael…

Philippa turns to her right to see dark curls splayed across the pillow next to her, as well as a distinctively Human shaped lump beneath the covers.

It all comes back to her now, slamming into her mind with full force.

 

-“ _Michael, I love you”-_

_-heart breaking open-_

_-universe tearing at the seams-_

_-body flying through a hole cut in space-_

_-“I love you too”-_

Sighing out a breath, Philippa closes her eyes and cloaks herself in the memories of more recent days, of Michael Burnham’s brown skin and mellow voice, her soothing scent, the “I love you’s” whispered every night and morning. Through no will of her own, Philippa’s hand snakes across the bed to trace over Michael’s form obscured by the comforter.

She nearly leaps out of her skin when a hand reaches up from the nest of blankets to take it.

“ _God_ —“ She cuts off the rest of the invective, other hand jumping to her chest in shock.

Michael’s dark eyes are heavy with sleep, but her eyebrows raise in concern.

Philippa huffs out a breath, running a hand over her face and through her mussed hair. “You don’t typically wake up when I do that.”

“I’m sorry,” comes the low response. “Didn’t mean to scare you, though from the looks of it…” Michael’s eyes pan up and down her body, and her gaze becomes knowing. “…something else had a head start.”

Philippa’s mouth twitches sideways. She understands that this is a tell, but is too tired and too shaken to care overly much.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“I could help.”

“You would not want to.”

“I disagree.”

Closing her eyes now, Philippa shakes her head. “You say that now…”

Michael sighs. “Your attempts to be elusive are only making this more intriguing. You know that, right?”

She _does_ know that, Philippa does know. Apparently the late hour is tearing down her ability to obfuscate, to put on a brave face and suppress the truth.

“Pippa…”

With that, Philippa finally turns to look at Michael. She remembers giving the younger woman her permission and encouragement to use the nickname, and Michael’s uncomfortable, adorable flush as she did so.

This _must_ be serious then.

“Your hand is shaking.”

Michael squirms to a sitting position, leaning back against the headboard, still holding onto Philippa’s hand. The room is slightly illuminated by the distant city, and in the scant amount of light, Philippa can trace Michael’s profile, the curls of her hair, the curiosity in her eyes.

“What is it you dream about, every night I’ve been here?” Her voice is a low murmur spoken in the familiar cadence that Philippa loves, not quite formal, but not quite day-to-day speech either.

“How do you…“

“I don’t wake up…not exactly…but somehow I feel your distress, at the same time, every time.” Michael’s hand slides to interlace their fingers. “This is the first time I’ve actually…” She spins a vague hand as she looks for the words. “Regained consciousness for it.”

Philippa manages a weak smile. “You’re getting your strength back.”

“Can I be rewarded for my progress?”

Philippa huffs in amusement at the question, but in the next moment the smile slides off of her face. Despite the levity of the statement, she knows what Michael will ask for.

“Please tell me…” Michael murmurs, rubbing her thumb across Philippa’s knuckles. “Whatever it is…what do you think I’m going to do?”

Swallowing heavily, Philippa looks away, because the answer to that question is truly terrifying. Guilt and shame clash in her psyche, and before she can stop herself, Philippa yanks her hand from Michael’s.

She doesn’t deserve this, she doesn’t, the very idea of touching Michael, of accepting any comfort from her love who has suffered so _much_ , and all because of…

…because…

The memories howl now, and Philippa pushes herself out of bed and onto the floor. Her bare feet strike the carpeted floor with intent as she strides away from the bed and into the living room. The lamp in the kitchenette comes on automatically as her feet carry her to the sink.

Philippa typically enjoys the studio layout of this Starfleet apartment, as it reminds her of her childhood home back in Malaysia, but one significant downside is the lack of places to hide, the lack of doors to close and rooms to sequester oneself in.

Of course, this has never been a problem until tonight.

 _This morning,_ Philippa corrects her thoughts as she glances at the chrono. It is 0300 hours, a pivotal time in her history with Michael Burnham to be certain, but this is starting to become ridiculous.

“Philippa…”

Michael approaches her now, a shade in the darkness of apartment. She’s pulled her sweater back on, her hands tucked into the sleeves, and Philippa cannot help but wonder if she is cold, even now.

“What’s going on with you?” The question is asked softly, concern in every syllable.

Philippa leans back against the cabinets of the kitchen, holding her face in one of her hands, her other hand stroking nervously at her forearm. _Gods,_ she had never known how she was going to tell Michael this. The guilt presses down on her with unholy force, ripping at her psyche and tearing open her dreams.

It literally keeps her up at night.

Doctor Kinariwala has told her that she does not need to talk about it until she is ready, but Philippa knows better. Her career, her entire _life,_ has taught her that if one were to wait until they felt ready, one might be waiting a lifetime.

And she does not want to experience a lifetime of this agony.

_Be brave…be brave like she was…_

The “she” in question being the woman standing before her, wrapped in a thick sweater and looking to be only seconds away from falling back asleep.

“How much do you remember from the…” Philippa’s voice trembles, and she struggles to control it. “…from the fight on T’Kuvma’s flagship?”

Michael’s face contorts in confusion. “All of it, Philippa…how could I possibly forget any of it?”

Philippa jerks her head to stare at the younger woman, but she quickly realizes that they are not on the same page. “No, not _that_ fight…I meant the one at the binary stars.”

Nodding slowly now, Michael’s gaze drops as she searches her memory. “I remember shooting that white Klingon in the head…” Her dark eyes swim in the recollection, “…and then everything went white. It was…the most pain I have ever felt in my life…”

Philippa recoils as if struck. She crosses her arms around her midsection, remembering the brutal strike that had split her protégée’s body through the middle.

“Hey…” Michael is in front of her in an instant, her dark features soft with compassion. She places gentle fingers on Philippa’s elbows. “…it’s alright—“

“It’s _not!_ ” The captain pulls away once more, she doesn’t deserve Michael’s kindness, nor her comfort—

“I don’t understand, Philippa, why not?” Michael’s mellow voice is low and measured, but Philippa can detect the impatience beneath it. She takes a breath and steels herself, squaring her shoulders like the Maw looms before her once more.

This is going to be worse.

“I had…a split second.” The words grate from Philippa’s throat like they are causing physical pain as they do so.

“I had a chance…an opening…” With every ounce of her strength, her resolve, Philippa brings her head up to make eye contact with the woman that she had failed so completely. Michael, for her part, seems to be catching on, her berry-brown eyes widening ever so slightly.

“My phaser was charged…I could have shot T’Kuvma in the head right then…before he stabbed you…I could have done it, I could have shot him and saved your life but I _didn’t—_ “

That moment will live forever in her memories. Only one moment, a tiny, infinitesimal blip in the span of her entire life, yet that moment changed the course of _everything_ that had ever happened to her or would ever happen to her.

A single moment. Less than a moment, even.

Philippa’s hands come up to cover her crumpling face. There are no more tears left to cry, only shame, brutal, destructive _shame_ , Philippa grits her teeth against it but any defense is utterly useless at the moment.

Michael should hate her for this.

But any hate her protégée manages to feel will be dwarfed by the hatred that Philippa feels for herself.

“But…if you had done that…you would have _killed him_.”

Michael’s voice is soft, syllables rounded from her weariness at the late hour. Philippa feels a brief spike of guilt at keeping her from the rest that she so desperately needs, but they’ve gotten this far, the captain figures that they’ve committed.

“Yes.”

Michael rubs at her eyes as if trying to physically shove some understanding into her brain. “So what you’re saying…is that you followed my plan. That _I_ proposed. That we _agreed_ on.”

Philippa glares at her, because she’s really not getting it. “That’s not the point, Michael!” she snaps.

“Then what is the point?”

“The point…” Philippa states slowly, “…is that _I_ should have saved your life, the way you saved mine.”

Michael’s dark eyes meet her own now. Realization is slowly dawning on her, and she backs away one step to lean against the island. The kitchenette is dark, even with the activation of the single lamp on the counter, and it seems like they speak in some sort of augmented reality, the entire world gone away, the people that they are during the day-to-day erased, leaving them at their truest selves.

This will be a hard conversation, Philippa knows, and she cannot help but suspect that it could only have happened now, at 0300 in the morning, approximately two months into Michael Burnham’s farce of a court martial, in this barely-lit kitchenette in this Starfleet-owned apartment.

“Everything that happened to you…” Philippa’s voice is steady, but her eyes start to well at the sight of Michael before her, painfully thin, pale scar across her left cheekbone. “Everything this past year, all of your suffering...”

Philippa huffs bitterly, staring at a point somewhere just past Michael’s right hip. “It’s my _fault_ , Michael.” She looks up now, and imagines some of her turmoil is present in her expression. “ _Gods_ , how can any of this be right? After what my choice did to you, how could —“

“Kobayashi Maru.”

The words cut Philippa off. Michael looks at her now, seeming far more alert than she had only moments before.

“An unwinnable scenario…a task with no solution…” Michael rubs a hand over her face. “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, how many times have you said this to me over the years—“

“It’s not the same,” Philippa denies.

“Why not?”

Philippa opens her mouth and closes it again. The answer is elusive and half-formed, swimming somewhere beneath her conscious mind, but it exists, she _knows_ that it does.

Michael only sighs. “You were faced with an impossible choice, and you chose the option that would save the greatest number of lives—“

“And I failed miserably,” Philippa snaps, her accent becoming more pronounced in her anger.

Michael’s mouth twists. “Well, I _do_ know thing or two about making a hard choice to save lives, only to fail in the end.”

The statement lingers in the air between them, echoing like distant thunder. Philippa swallows heavily at Michael’s words, something that she had not considered before.

“It’s not the same,” she finally whispers. “A mutiny, done in an attempt to save all of our lives, _my_ life among them…what you did, you did to save me, what I did made you a sacrifice!”

“Which made your choice so much harder than mine, wouldn’t you agree?” Michael counters, her voice rising only slightly.

Philippa’s hands clench the counter with all of their strength, so that she will not be tempted to break something.

“How can you stand there and defend me, Michael? How can you bear to be in the same room with me, let alone in a romantic relationship with me, when I am the cause of all of what happened to you?”

Michael’s jaw goes slack, but Philippa continues, the words finally, _finally_ flooding from her tortured subconscious.

“I fucking let you _die_ , how does that not damn us from the cradle—“

“ _Because I don’t want it to_!”

The exclamation rings in the apartment.

“My _God_ , Philippa, have we not suffered enough?”

Philippa is unable to answer, struck dumb by the raw emotion in Michael’s face, in her mellow voice. This is easily the most passion Michael has demonstrated in the many weeks since her court martial began, though Philippa is quite uncertain if she ought to be pleased, given the subject matter.

“Seven years, you have had my back…” Michael’s voice is low, her cadence slow and purposeful, echoing with certainty. “You taught me, you protected me…you loved me, even if you didn’t know it-”

-Philippa’s lips twitch weakly at this-

“You have saved my life countless times,” Michael finishes, her dark eyes clear. “One decision, made in the heat of battle, after a _truly_ terrible day…after I betrayed you, after losing so much of your crew, after the _Europa_ …”

Michael shrugs helplessly. “One choice, made under hellish circumstances, should not supersede the seven years before it—“

Philippa rolls her eyes. “Are you seriously making excuses for me?”

“Are you seriously trying to tell me that a single decision, an _impossible_ decision with no right answer, somehow negates seven years of trust and love?”

“A decision itself, perhaps not, but the consequences?” Philippa’s voice drops to an anguished whisper. “You _died_ , Sarek felt it. And then…a full year you were imprisoned, Michael, by the very race that killed your family… you were forced to break universal laws to build a war machine, you went through _hell_ —“

“And you didn’t?” Michael’s demand cuts her off. “I see you flinch at loud noises…I’ve heard you whisper in your sleep…Saru and Detmer have told me stories from the past year that I honestly have difficulty believing are about you…”

Shame wells up in Philippa’s chest once more, but Michael lowers her head to meet her eyes. “You were forced to act against your principles as well. Forced to fight, forced to kill, forced to make terrible choices…I am not the only one who suffered, Philippa—“

“But you were not the cause of it, Michael,” Philippa bites out, her hands chopping in front of her. “Not like I was for yours.”

“I _did_ save your life, that is debatable.”

“Not helpful,” Philippa snaps, and Michael visibly flinches at the ire in her voice.

The flinch strikes Philippa like a blow, and she takes several deep breaths to school her emotion. Her fingers loosen their vise-hold on the kitchen counter with each exhale, the muscles in the digits aching from the strength of the hold.

It is somewhat astonishing to see that the clench of her hands around the granite did not leave fissures etched into the stone.

Even as she does this, Michael’s face flickers through emotions like a shutter. She draws away slightly, stepping away from the island. Her lips work as she considers what to say.

“Alright, let’s say for the purpose of a thought experiment, that you did save my life by killing T’Kuvma.” Michael looks tired, but her dark eyes are clear. “What do you think would have happened?”

Philippa remains silent as she works through the possibility. “The war would have proceeded…more brutal, perhaps more difficult to end, but you would have _survived_ —“

“But at what _cost_ , Philippa?” Michael demands, her voice an agitated whisper. “I would have been sentenced to prison for mutiny—“

Philippa scoffs. “Do honestly believe I would have allowed that to happen?”

“I doubt you could have done anything to stop it,” Michael counters, shaking her head wearily. “Considering you’re having so much trouble stopping it now, after I saved the Earth, _and_ ended the war.”

Philippa blinks.

It’s an excellent point, and she is uncertain as to why she had not considered this possibility.

“You would have saved my life…the war would have raged endless…and I would have gone to my grave a disgraced prisoner.” There is no type of inflection in Michael’s tone, her dark eyes are clear, her face smooth where she stands several feet away.

Philippa isn’t quite sure how to feel about this.

On one hand, saving Michael’s life…on the other, sentencing her to imprisonment of a vastly different sort than the one she had experienced for the past year. A more merciful imprisonment, but a far, _far_ longer one…one where she would not have been able to act as a critical player in the war with the Klingons.

The two of them stand in silence, mulling it over.

“In terms of possible outcomes,” Michael murmurs. “I think this might have been the best we could have hoped for.”

Philippa’s lips twitch in spite of herself. “That is…genuinely depressing.”

“Depressing?” Michael snorts and shakes her head, before placing her elbows onto the island for support. Her head drops into her hands. “We’re both here, we’re alive, the war is over…we’re _together_ …”

She smiles weakly even as her heavy lids droop. “…I got to jump through a wormhole…”

Philippa chuckles softly at that. “Oh, aren’t you proud of yourself.”

“Well, how many people get to say that?”

“None. I know you looked it up.”

Michael smiles wider, looking almost impish with her eyes half-shut. Philippa’s heart skips a beat at the expression.

“Like I said…” Michael repeats, her dark features heavy with certainly, and likely exhaustion as well. “Best we could have hoped for…”

Her face goes slack from where it rests on her arms, eyes fluttering shut, and Philippa can’t help but shake her head in reluctant amusement at the sight.

“Alright, come on.” She walks around the island, takes Michael by the arm, and with fairly little effort hauls her limp body across the apartment.

“You are far lighter than Ash Tyler,” Philippa mutters, and she hears Michael’s faint, amused huff.

“You carried Lieutenant Tyler like this?”

“Barely,” Philippa bites out as she reaches the bed. “That man is too tall.”

“I look forward to the story behind that one.” Michael slips under the covers once more but remains in a seated position, her form propped up against the headboard.

“You really don’t,” Philippa denies softly as she folds herself onto the bed, crossing her legs beneath the blankets. The memory of L’Rell’s torture ship lurks somewhere just below her conscious, but it’s easy enough to suppress at a time like this, here in this warm bed with Michael Burnham only a meter away, alive and on the mend.

The midsummer moonglow illuminates the apartment through long windows, bathing the furniture in soft light, serving as an intensely soothing reminder that they are not in space. Philippa gazes out into the night sky, taking comfort in Michael’s presence mere inches away, but quite unable to look at her form glowing in the moonlight.

“What is it?” Michael murmurs, her mellow voice floating through the night air like a ghost.

 

_A ghost…_

“You know…what the Klingons called me…” Philippa begins in a halting tone.

“ _Ghobe’ HoD_ ,” comes the perfect Klingon rasp from mere feet away, out of the mouth of the woman she loves.

It takes everything Philippa has to not flinch at it.

“There is…very good reason for that.”

“I know.” Michael murmurs in a low voice.

“I did things…Gods, Michael, I did things I thought I would never have to do, not in this lifetime.”

“You saved a great many lives, I’m sure.”

The words are mere conjecture; as a current defendant on trial for capital offenses by Starfleet Judicial Council, Michael has none of the privileges associated with her rank, no real way of looking up just how many lives Philippa and her crew had saved.

Or at what cost.

“And how many lives did I take?” Philippa whispers, looking down at her hands, feeling quite a bit older than she actually is. “Telling myself it was fair, _necessary,_ even…” She swallows harshly at the memories.

“What I became, after I… after you—“

The words stagger and go silent.

Philippa can’t say it, she _can’t_.

With considerable effort, she tears herself out of _that_ moment, on _that_ ship…that horrible day at the unnamed binary star system on the outermost edge of Federation space. She breathes steadily, focusing on the movement of her fingers, the geometric pattern on the quilt covering her legs.

“I suppose on some level, I thought…surely my soul was already forfeit. I might as well be the one to take on the burden of death, of impossible decisions, of broken oaths, and spare others the need to do so...so that as few as possible might need to sacrifice their humanity in service of the war.”

Michael huffs out a soft, mirthless laugh from her place only inches away. “See, you say things like that and think I could never understand, but…that is _exactly_ what I did, Philippa. And you know that.”

Her mellow voice floats in the dark air of the apartment, and Philippa considers the words carefully.

“You forgave me all of my sins,” Michael continues, the calm of her tone matching the pale glow of the moon. “And it is still so hard for me to fathom how you could possibly do so, but…I do believe that you are being honest with me.”

Philippa shakes her head. “That’s not…quite…” She cannot finish, cannot form words that will coalesce her chaotic thoughts into something resembling reason.

“We may forgive each other,” Michael continues, her voice casting a spell in the darkness. “I suppose the real question is…can we forgive ourselves?”

Philippa turns to look at her protégée now, her dark face lined by the harshness of captivity, heavy with the burden of sixty thousand souls, aged from the reality of what she had done…

 _She is so beautiful_.

And the next thought:

_Does she see this when she looks at me?_

The possibility is both inspiring and humbling; once more, Philippa Georgiou wonders at how any of this could have possibly happened, how or why the universe had seen fit to give her this second chance.

“You’ve become very wise,” Philippa finally manages.

Michael’s lips twitch at that. “Well…I _am_ receiving a lot of counseling.”

Clearly paying off, if Michael’s smooth expression and calm serenity are anything to go by.

While Philippa ruminates on this, Michael slides several inches down the headboard, her eyelids drooping from the late hour. Philippa looks on as she tucks herself beneath the covers once more, twisting into a position of maximum comfort, efficient to the point of uncaring in her movements. The memory of their first night together on Palau Langkawi immediately springs to mind, when this particular action had been so novel to Michael that she had moved at a snail’s pace, utterly overwhelmed by each and every motion and sensation.

_How far she has come._

Philippa smiles tenderly at the thought, even as she squirms down to lie on her side, tugging the blankets around her torso.

Truly, it is moments like this that make her think that perhaps they will be okay.

“Philippa?”

“Hmm?”

“In the future…do you think we could reserve all further serious discussions for daylight hours?”

Philippa snorts. “I make no promises.”

Michael curls her head into the pillow and gives a low groan of distress, and Philippa can’t help a soft laugh. Somewhere beneath the covers, her right hand brushes against fingertips not her own, a trace amount of physical contact that somehow feels like the most intimate of holds.

“Can we sleep in tomorrow, then?”

From her place tucked tightly into this bed, warm and snug, loved and forgiven, Philippa finds the prospect almost unbearably tempting, particularly after the hectic nature of the past two months. A lazy morning spent tangled together beneath the blankets, drinking tea and whispering stories and secrets, Michael’s beautiful face illuminated by the morning sunlight…

“I suppose I could move some appointments around.”

Philippa feels, rather than sees, Michael’s elated smile, and her own lips twitch in a reciprocal expression.

“Do you really forgive me? Just like that?” Philippa’s question comes out in a whisper.

She feels Michael sigh, her fingers twitching to interlace beneath the covers. “I think…that we have suffered enough. And I am ready to move on.”

“That is not quite what I am asking.”

“Do you want me to actually say that I forgive you?” Philippa can hear the tiredness in Michael’s tone. “I will. I’ll say it. I forgive you.” Michael’s thumb brushes over her knuckles. “I _forgive_ you, Philippa. I’m not upset, I’m not angry…I love you.”

Pause.

“I think I might forgive you anything.”

Philippa huffs, but it comes out watery. “Don’t…tempt me…”

“What are you gonna do?” Michael chuckles, a low sound that comes from her chest.

“Oh I can be very creative…” Philippa murmurs, even as a tear slides down her cheek.

Michael’s fingers clasp tighter around her hand, hidden somewhere beneath the covers. Her strength is returning, Philippa feels it in the clench of her fingers, and she holds fast just as tightly. An incredibly feeble bond on a scientific scale; nevertheless, this connection feels stronger than the nuclear forces binding an atom, more powerful than the celestial forces governing the motion of the stars.

Philippa never wants to let go.

As the brilliant night sky glows over the distant city, she considers the peaceful present, and the desperate, hellish past that had somehow delivered her here.

“Michael…?”

“Mmm?” Michael’s response is barely there, no doubt she is drifting off.

“I know, logically…that it all worked out, but…”

Philippa sighs, exhaling regret and remorse with the action.

“I still wish I had taken that shot.”

Michael is silent for so long that Philippa thinks that surely she has fallen asleep.

But finally the response comes, in a sleepy murmur that still somehow manages to be crystal clear.

“Well, tell me this…what did you do after I was stabbed?”

Philippa blinks in the darkness of her apartment, Michael’s hold on her hand acting as a grounding force, a tether keeping her bound to Earth, to life, to the present-day.

“I…fired and missed.” Philippa gives a slightly self-conscious huff. “It’s hard to aim when the woman you love has been gutted in front of you. And then…he started using your body as a shield…I could hardly have shot _through you_ \---”

“So what you’re saying is that you took the shot.” Michael quickly points out, her voice lowered to a tone barely audible. “With the intent to kill T’Kuvma, to save me. _You took the shot_.”

The whisper echoes in Philippa’s mind like Michael had shouted it off of the top of a mountain range, reverberating through her conscious and all but stunning her with its clarity.

Michael squeezes her hand, and though it is nearly pitch-dark in this apartment, Philippa can imagine the peace in her eyes, the certainty in her expression.

“Maybe you did hesitate, Philippa, but…you made the choice, in the end.”

 

 

 

 


	21. Heaven and Earth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry it took so long, but this was the last hard chapter at least. And thanks so much for the amazing tumblr artwork, you guys!

 

 

 _San Francisco is nothing like ShiKahr_.

An obvious fact, one that Michael observes each and every time she transports to the city. Where ShiKahr is hot, arid, a desert city amidst a desert planet, San Francisco is dim and cloudy, the heavy air carrying a perpetual threat of rain.

Nevertheless, San Francisco is where the Vulcan embassy is, thus it is where Michael spends a great deal of time when not in court.

There are reasons for this, logical and otherwise. Mind healing sessions with Vulcan experts in the field offer a unique remedy for the trauma of war, one that Michael appreciates deeply. But beyond this, the island of Vulcan serenity in the veritable ocean of Human chaos serves to fill the deep longing in Michael’s chest for peace and quiet, for familiarity and home.

Michael enjoys her time there immensely, finding it to be a sort of safe haven, a quiet place to escape the throngs of humanity, the majority of whom treat her as some sort of celebrity. Of course, the Vulcan dignitaries and aids stationed at the embassy treat her as such as well, though their displays are far more restrained. A respectful nod here and there, the occasional Vulcan salute.

Time with her foster father is an additional benefit.

After what she has been through, Michael feels absolutely no shame in seeking out Sarek’s presence for emotional solace, though her past self might have recoiled at such a thing. Not to mention, Amanda has mentioned to Michael that Sarek requested the temporary placement on Earth, _fought_ for it, even, despite the Vulcan High Council’s vocal concerns towards his motivations for undertaking the assignment.

The logical conclusion drawn from this information is that Sarek desires emotional solace as well.

“The length and number of your strides have increased,” Sarek observes as he walks next to Michael, along the pier that leads to the public transporters. “And your breath rate is far closer to your typical parameters than it was three months ago.”

“I _am_ on the mend,” Michael acknowledges, the cackle of gulls a distant melody on the wind. “Adequate nutrition and appropriate exercise have proven restorative.”

The fact that the final day of Sarek’s posting coincides with the final day of Michael’s trial is likely not a coincidence, though Michael does not point this out.

Instead, she takes quiet comfort in his simple presence, the aura of calm safety and wisdom he projects even now, well beyond her childhood years.

Sarek appears older, his hair streaked with white, his face lined and weary; physical evidence that the past year had been hard on him. Nevertheless, his presence is soothing and familiar, even more so for the obvious proof of what they had experienced together.

“Your psychological health, as well, seems greatly improved.”

Michael nods at that, remembering her pitiful state after her return to Earth; half-wild with remnants of her Klingon life, occasionally nonverbal and stunned speechless at every new sound and sensation.

“Thank you,” she finally murmurs. “I feel…a great deal better than I did.”

A group of mixed-species children cut in front of them, howling with laughter at their game of chase. None pay Michael a second glance, for which she is thankful. Her gray and gold Vulcan robes offer something of disguise, despite the fact that her Vulcan heritage is well known across the quadrants at this point.

The patterned sash holding her curls away from her face no doubt adds to the illusion, as it covers the tips of her ears, lending weight to her Vulcan appearance.

“Your mother will be quite pleased at your progress.”

Michael nods at this. “Give her my love, when you see her.”

“I will.”

Michael is genuinely uncertain as to whether Sarek will express her sentiments to Amanda in those exact words, but is sure that he will find a way to get the point across.

“You must know that she was…fraught with worry, during the entirety of your imprisonment.”

“I understand,” Michael replies, her voice going soft.

The fact that Sarek had kept his Human wife informed of her whereabouts and endeavors during the war continues to fill her with awe at the relationship that her foster parents clearly possess.

Trust beyond anything she can conceive of, as well as a deep, unwavering mutual respect.

Michael hopes that she will be able to imbue her own relationship with these fundamental pillars as well.

Sarek’s silence lasts for one long, heavy moment; as if he is weighing whether or not to speak his thoughts.

“I certainly did not find it an easy type of knowledge to live with, either,” he finally admits.

Aside from a stunned sideways look at her foster father, Michael cannot quite manage a response.

“You are surprised at this,” Sarek observes with a concerned eyebrow, though his stride does not waver.

With a long sigh, Michael considers her answer for several weighted moments.

“I am not surprised at the sentiment,” she finally admits, stopping her forward progress in order to look Sarek in the face. “Merely your…verbal expression of it.”

Sarek stops walking as well. He looks down at Michael, and the drop of his shoulders is almost undetectable.

Almost.

“There are…many things…that I believe I should have expressed verbally to you.”

Sarek’s voice is impassive, but his face flickers ever so slightly.

“It is ironic, truly, that such vital matters do not become clear until it is too late.”

Michael blinks at the words, and feels an odd type of tremble in her heart.

“Almost too late,” she corrects softly.

Sarek’s lips thin ever so slightly at her words, his expression darkening every so subtly.

“We shared a mind for nearly a year, Michael, and although the connection grew incredibly weak towards the end, I felt your katra through our bond.”

He raises one eyebrow at her now.

“Thus, I felt the intent you developed towards your own life. Your endgame, as it were.”

The implication hangs heavy between them, the noise of the pier going distant and silent.

Michael suddenly recalls Sarek’s previous observation concerning her improved psychological health. She wonders at how long he has been waiting to air this particular issue.

“This, combined with your actions in stopping T’Kuvma’s Detonator ship with your own vessel…your seeming… _eagerness_ …at the prospect…”

Sarek trails off.

“You aimed to die in achieving your goal of ending the war.” He gives her a placid look. “Did it occur to you, as you were plotting to this end, that the concept of martyrdom is Klingon in nature, not Federation?”

At this, Michael has to smile, soft and humorless.

_Has no one learned anything from the year of bloodshed?_

“Well, let me ask you this, Sarek. If I _had_ died in the collision with the Detonator ship, saving the planet and ending the war…do you think Starfleet would have wasted time with a posthumous court martial?”

Michael raises a pointed eyebrow.

“Or would they have hailed me as a hero…spread my name across the quadrants…built statues to honor my selfless sacrifice, my final act of redemption?”

She gestures with her chin at the memorial in the center of the jetty in front of them, silver sculptures commemorating certain key players of World War 3.

Sarek says nothing, but Michael knows that this says more than words.

They both know the answer to her question.

“Klingon culture is centered around war and combat,” Michael continues. “They live in conjunction with their baser instincts, while the Federation suppresses ours with rules and regulation.”

She sighs, looking out to the slate-gray sea in contemplation.

“But when it comes down to it…we are not so different.”

The statement hangs between them, lost in the hush of the waves, the distant squawking of seagulls.

“While that may be true, I must say that I am…greatly satisfied…that your plan did not come to fruition.”

The statement warms Michael’s heart.

“As am I,” she agrees with a small smile.

She understands, even now, that it would have been far easier to die a hero than to live and face the consequences of her actions.

_But life was never meant to be easy._

Sarek scans her face with a critical eye. He hesitates only a moment before extending his hand towards her, stopping barely millimeters from her left cheek. His fingertips hover, almost as if he is considering whether or not to join his mind with hers.

“Why do you not choose to remove this scar via simple dermal regenerative procedure?”

Judging from the tone of his voice, the tilt of his head, there is significant possibility that Sarek already knows the answer to this question.

 _But,_ Michael acknowledges from his previous assertion, _verbal expression of such sentiments are valuable in their own way._

Michael starts to walk once more as she schools her thoughts, and Sarek matches his strides to hers.

“I received this wound from T’Kuvma himself…a strike from the sharp edges of his knuckles. It happened on the day I tricked him into throwing his entire fleet into one final attack.”

Michael considers her next words.

“Everyone…Klingon, Federation, all of them would say that our fight in the ready room was when I defeated him.” Michael shakes her head. “This is false. It was _that day_ , eight months and four days into my captivity…that was the day I defeated him. That was the day I won the war.”

She looks towards the ocean as she walks, and understands that what she is about to say next has considerable implications towards her present state of mind, her being, who she is…and who she has become.

“I bear this scar to remind myself that my suffering was not in vain…as well to honor the many lives I took during the final battle.”

Michael knows full well that this is not a Vulcan sentiment, nor a Human one.

_But that does not make it wrong._

If Sarek is at all disturbed by the response, he does not show it. Rather, he looks at her appraisingly, studying with keen eyes.

“As a xenoanthropologist who spent a year amongst Klingons, you know their race far better than most.”

“Yes…” Michael agrees softly. “Far better than I ever thought I would.”

After all, a year was a long time…far longer than any outsider has ever spent in close contact with the race. Michael had studied their behavior and culture with a scientist’s eye, doing all that she could to know them, to understand them…

_All in the service of war and destruction._

A horrific perversion of Michael Burnham’s calling as a xenoanthropologist, one that galls her even now, over three months after the war’s end.

“How ironic, that your captivity should make you the most knowledgeable person in the quadrants concerning the Klingon race,” Sarek continues.

“Ironic, indeed.”

Michael’s mouth twists sideways. It _is_ ironic, that she should be the only person in the Federation to know the Klingons on this level…to understand their race so thoroughly, so deeply that at times, she feels almost Klingon herself.

It _is_ ironic, that she should be the one to take so many of their lives, in defense of an organization that has turned their back on her.

“Such intimate knowledge could prove useful in the reconstruction, in building diplomatic ties with a united Empire…” Sarek raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps working toward a future of lasting peace.”

“This is true.” Of course, Michael has imagined such a future for herself many times…a constructive use for her hard-earned knowledge of the Klingons that might, in some way, atone for her actions during the Battle for Earth.

“However,” she continues, “Considering I defeated their leader in a humiliating fashion and destroyed an entire armada singlehandedly, I am uncertain whether I would be a good choice in working with them.”

Sarek stops walking, the transporter pads now in sight.

“Has no one informed you?”

In response, Michael only raises an eyebrow.

She is currently on trial for crimes against Starfleet, against the Federation itself. Why would anyone tell her anything?

“The Klingons are a warrior culture,” Sarek begins. “They answer to violence…they respect power. You understand this, I am sure.”

Michael nods slowly.

“The Empire has a name for you, spread across their race.”

Sarek looks towards her, his eyes sharp to the point of piercing.

“ _be' 'Iv 'u' yISeH_.”

His accent is deplorable to the point of incomprehensible, but Michael understands nonetheless. All of the breath leaves her body in a stunned exhale at the words.

_It can’t be…_

The transporters are bustling with people coming and going. There is no real reason for Sarek to linger, now that his mission is complete. His transport to Vulcan currently awaits his arrival in Earth’s orbit; it would be illogical and inefficient for him to delay.

Still, he and Michael stand regarding each other in silence, the noise of the pier somewhere far away. Michael is suddenly reminded of their frequent mind-melds over the past year, that infinite and infinitesimal space, their katras suspended in a silent blue void.

It is Sarek’s last day on Earth, as well as the last day of her trial. This day has been a long time coming, yet now that it is here, Sarek does not seem to quite understand what to do. His brow furrows infinitesimally, and his head leans ever so slightly to the right.

She does love him, Michael supposes. She knows that she is merely his ward; the man has never once called her his daughter, nor himself her father. Nevertheless, Sarek had raised her, taught her his culture, and made her strong in his teachings. His presence during her imprisonment had kept her going, at times it had been the only thing keeping her upright, and doing this had clearly proved a great cost to his physical wellbeing.

“Michael…” Sarek murmurs.

She thinks that might even be tenderness in his voice.

“As the events of this past year have show, you are the equivalent to any Vulcan in mental fortitude.”

Pause.

“And the superior to a great many as well.”

Michael blinks at the words.

“Thank you, Sarek,” she manages, in a tone that does not quite succeed in being emotionless.

Sarek continues to look at her, and though his face remains placid, the kindness, the _pride_ , in his eyes is unmistakable.

“Your strength…your courage…your intelligence…all of this points to a very bright future, in whatever you may choose to do, Starfleet or otherwise.” Sarek’s gaze softens. “Surely you understand this.”

Michael swallows heavily at his words, ones that she had not been prepared to hear from her foster father on this day, or any day.

“ _I do_ …” She finally breathes, voice weak and trembling. “I do,” Michael repeats with a shake of her head, stronger and steadier this time. “However…”

She sighs as she searches for a way to phrase her next statement.

“I very much doubt that I will be returning to Starfleet, no matter how the trial may end.”

“An understandable choice…perhaps even a commendable one, considering their past and present treatment of you.” Sarek nods once in acknowledgement. “However, the gratitude that the people of the Federation… _all_ people of the Federation… feel towards you cannot be overstated.”

Sarek takes several steps onto the transporter pad before turning back to face Michael. He pauses for only a moment before raising a pointed eyebrow.

“And it must be noted, of course, that Starfleet is not the _only_ organization in this universe dedicated to science and exploration.”

After fifteen years of living with the man, Michael is used to detangling her foster father’s often-cryptic manner of speaking.

But before the implication of the words has time to shift the ground upon which she stands, Sarek raises his right hand in a salute.

“Until we meet again…” And the quiet resolve in Sarek’s expression makes Michael absolutely certain that they will.

“Live long…”

“…and prosper,” Michael completes softly, her own hand raised in a reciprocal gesture, her chest warm and weightless.

In the next moment, Sarek’s form evaporates into swirling amber particulates, leaving Michael with nothing but the cackling of gulls and the bustle of people coming and going.

She walks slowly to the railing separating the pier from the ocean, the breeze tugging at the ends of her robes. Late summer wind whips at her curls, the chirping of birds overhead grounding her in the present, even as she muses on the past…and the nebulous, uncertain, _promising_ future.

Strangely, Michael’s mind keeps returning to Sarek’s report regarding the moniker bequeathed to her by the Klingon Empire…one that, to her surprise, Michael finds vastly preferable to the many iconic descriptors that the Federation news channels have seen fit to grant her.

The Klingon language springs to her lips easily, even after many months of disuse.

“ _be' 'Iv 'u' yISeH_ …”

Michael’s tongue forms the trill indicating tense, her throat expelling the glottal sounds with practiced ease, and the meaning of the words echoes in her mind like the most dazzling of sunsets.

Not mutineer, not traitor…

Not _Maghwl’._

 

_be' 'Iv 'u' yISeH…_

 

The Woman Who Wields the Universe.

 

 

 

 *******

                                                                

 

 

 

 Many hours later, Michael Burnham finds herself seated on one of Pulau Langkawi’s beaches at the end of the day… _this_ day…the final day of her court martial, the eve of her sentencing.

Three months and eleven days since her return to Earth _._

The sea murmurs in a soothing hush as it ebbs and flows along the sandy shore. High above her, the stars flicker and gleam in the distant night sky, the banner of heaven laid out in a brilliant celestial tapestry and reflected in the peaceful ocean waters.

_As above, so below…_

Michael ruminates on this as the late summer breeze ruffles at the ends of her flowing ankle-length skirt, a concession to Vulcan modesty that also offers reasonable protection to the end of summer chill.

Not to mention, Keyla Detmer had slyly informed her that it fulfills the latest Human fashion standards of Summer 2257.

Michael had found this amusing at the time, but has to admit that there is some rational purpose to the practice of wearing stylish clothing.

It makes her feel attractive in a way she has not felt for the majority of the past year.

The shifting pink and white patterns of the skirt do not in any way match the sweater she is wearing, sleeves rolled up and hem knotted at the waist, but Michael considers this of little concern considering the nip in the late summer air.

And, if pressed, she will admit to some level of sentimental attachment to this particular sweater.

The expanse of the ocean is almost pitch dark, an inky black plane extending to the distant horizon. Michael wonders about her ancestors, the Humans who had sailed the vastness of Earth’s seas and assumed that it was the pinnacle of exploration …the greatest unknown in existence.

She directs her dark eyes upwards towards the heavens, the mysterious celestial plane, unending in its novelty, unceasing in its infinity.

For the past two hundred years, Humans have spread their reach across the galaxies, exploring, discovering, making contact…all the while calling it the pinnacle of exploration, as the ancient seafarers once did.

_Where will we be in another two hundred years?_

The thought brings a smile to Michael’s face.

The breeze tugs at the tips of her coily hair, whispering through the white sands around her feet. Closing her eyes now, Michael allows the sigh of the wind across her skin to act as an anchor for her mind and her soul, both of which are somewhere far above her, in the swirling beauty of the cosmos.

“ _Isik_ for your thoughts?”

Philippa’s voice interjects from somewhere behind and above her, and Michael smiles at the turn of phrase, one that she had taught her captain many years ago.

“No need to offer me payment,” Michael replies good-naturedly. “I would happily share my thoughts with you for free.”

“You would make a terrible Ferengi,” Philippa remarks as she folds herself onto the sand on Michael’s left side. She drops a kiss onto Michael’s cheek, right over her scar, and something warm and tingly spreads through Michael’s stomach. The gesture is simple, platonic, even; nevertheless, something about the implied intimacy of simple kisses to the face tends to make her go weak.

There is little doubt in Michael’s mind that Philippa has figured this out; if her amused smiles after each occurrence did not tip Michael off, then the increased number of actual occurrences certainly have.

The whispering night wind tugs at Philippa’s loose white shirt, and Michael notes that the color flatters Philippa’s dark eyes and flowing hair, while the cut accentuates her willow frame.

Though Michael has to acknowledge that she is far from an impartial observer at this point.

Philippa offers her an insulated thermos, which Michael accepts gratefully. Steam issues from the vessel once Michael removes the lid, carrying with it the fragrant scent of Vulcan spiced tea.

“You’ll spoil me,” Michael observes, even as she sips at the drink.

“That is rather the point,” comes the dry response, and Michael smiles at it.

She takes a moment to gather her thoughts, enjoying the floral spice of the tea blunted by the coconut-based cream, a thoroughly Human additive that Michael appreciates nonetheless.

“I was thinking about where we are now. Humans, I mean.” Michael clarifies, replacing the lid as she does so. “We think that we are at the zenith of our civilization, the peak of discovery, of exploration…Just like our ancestors did, five hundred years ago on these oceans.”

She gestures at the glinting waters with a jut of her chin.

Philippa considers this quietly for several moments, and Michael steals sideways glimpses as she does so.

“It is funny to think…the sailors of old could have never contemplated that one day, we would sail through vacuum instead of water…in ships of metal, instead of wood.”

Philippa’s lilting voice matches the melody of the ocean, her stunning face eclipses the beauty of the stars. “There is no telling how far we might go, I suppose. Where we may be, in another five hundred years.”

“We think we’re so advanced…” Michael smiles ruefully. “We probably couldn’t come close to comprehending the realms our descendants will explore…other dimensions…other universes…”

She feels Philippa’s cryptic smile from beside her. “It’s closer than you might believe.”

“Undoubtedly,” Michael agrees, recalling the wormhole she had passed through less than four months ago, as well as the classified nature of the _U.S.S. Discovery_ that had earned it the mystical moniker of _Lomqa Duj,_ “Ghost Ship.”

“You know…” Michael begins. “For a long time I thought I would never want to go back out there. After this year…on that ship…” She shakes her head, recalling the hell of her imprisonment. “I thought I would be done with space forever, thought I would plant my feet on some planet, somewhere, and never leave. But now?”

The stars glow above her, steady in their courses, stellar pathways extending into the infinite. They beckon with silent voices, calling out a promise of adventure, of discovery, of science and wisdom and _freedom_.

“I think I might be ready.”

She senses, rather than sees, Philippa’s quiet discomfort from beside her.

The moment turns into two, which turns into three. Finally, Michael smiles, her face smooth with acceptance.

“They’re not going to let me come back, are they?”

Philippa sighs heavily, more than enough of an answer to Michael’s question.

“Good,” Michael states, and Philippa turns to look at her, confusion obvious in the crease of her brow.

“You’re…happy about this?” She sounds stunned, and Michael cannot help a small huff at what she considers to be an obvious state of affairs.

“Perhaps “happy” is too strong a word,” Michael allows. “But I’m alright with it. Even if they had let me return…I don’t think I would have.”

“Really?”

Philippa sounds skeptical, and Michael smiles at her tone.

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“Some clarification might help,” comes the dry rebuttal.

“Well, let me put it this way.” Michael wraps her arms around her knees as she considers her next words. “Starfleet…the Federation… blamed me for this war. They spent a full year smearing my name, the name of a dead woman, for something that—“

She cuts herself off, the finished statement confusing to the point of astonishing. Philippa smiles gently, knowingly, beckoning Michael to continue.

“ _Wasn’t my fault_.”

The acknowledgment is so simple, but the truth of it shakes Michael to her very core.

Philippa, for her part, smiles wider, pride obvious in her eyes.

“And now I’ve won the war for them, something that, even with thousands of ships, resources upon resources, they couldn’t do.” Michael shakes her head, her smile sardonic but not quite bitter. “And even after all of that…they court-martialed me less than two weeks after I escaped a year-long captivity aboard a Klingon ship.”

Both Michael and Philippa understand that the majority of Starfleet Judiciary cases take at least a full month before going to court, if not two or three; in light of this, eleven days had been an almost comically scant amount of time.

Philippa snorts. “Do tell me how you really feel.”

“They arrested me in my hospital bed,” Michael states flatly. “Literally, they handcuffed me to the bed.”

She shoots a pointed look at Philippa.

“Rather poor treatment, I think we can agree.”

“You deserved far better,” Philippa agrees.

Michael casts her gaze up towards the gibbous moon, radiating peace from its place in the heavens, and imagines that Philippa is doing the same from where she sits at Michael’s left side.

“Starfleet…I once thought it a magnificent institution. A great testament to what our universe could be, if only we were to approach the unknown with peace and curiosity.”

Ocean waves lap in a hushing whisper, murmurs hanging low in the summer air. The glow of the moon casts the beach into soft light, a dim glow that is mercifully kind to Michael’s still light-sensitive eyes.

“Yet they have shown me no peace, even after this year of hell.” Michael’s voice is low, devoid of emotions. “No curiosity in what I may have to offer them…as a xenoanthropologist who lived with Klingons for a year…as a quantum physicist who reconciled time, space, and dimension.”

“Whatever Starfleet is…whatever it _was_ …” Michael shakes her head. “That’s not what it is anymore. It is not what it used to be.”

_Nothing is._

The implication hangs in the night air, quiet and unprovoked.

“They say that no one really returns from war,” Philippa begins slowly. “And I believe this to be true. You and I…we are both very different. I suppose it would make sense that Starfleet will have changed as well.”

Michael looks down at her crossed legs somewhat sadly. It _is_ a hard pill to swallow, that the organization whose values she had clung to so hard during her imprisonment had decided to do this to her.

“Still…this is hardly Starfleet,” Philippa mutters with a shake of her head. “This is the unilateral decision of a small group of admirals and politicians who are trying to retain their positions—“

“Ironic, as this particular move will all but seal their fate," Michael finishes matter-of-factly. “I hear Kepler might be forced to resign."

“A ways off, but likely,” Philippa replies. “Him, and many others. Cornwell certainly surprised them with her turn. I’m quite proud of her.”

“She really pushed for me towards the end, didn’t she?” Michael questions, still feeling more than a little stunned at the prospect.

“I was surprised as well, though perhaps I shouldn’t have been.” Philippa acknowledges. “She was the same way as a tactician…waiting until the board was set …the nooses already around her opponents’ necks, so to speak.”

“No wonder she became an admiral,” Michael remarks. “She sounds like an excellent politician.”

“Oh, she is.” Philippa shakes her head. “Though this particular move is doing her no favors with the rest of command…with Federation leadership.”

Something dark swims beneath Philippa’s voice, and Michael turns to study her expression, the subtle remorse in the set of her jaw, the shape of her eyes.

“Will Cornwell resign as well?”

“She is…considering it,” Philippa states carefully. “When I spoke with her, it sounded like she had truly had enough.”

Michael turns back to regard the expanse of the ocean.

“Seems a shame, to end an illustrious career in such a way.”

“An end?” Philippa questions. “Or a beginning?”

Eyebrow raised in curiosity, Michael turns back to her.

“She is a Fleet trained psychotherapist, and a galactic war _has_ just ended.”

Michael thinks of the thousands upon thousands of Starfleet personnel returning from the front, each and every day in a reverse migration across the galaxy. Scientists-turned-soldiers, pale and weary, with vacant expressions and trembling hands.

“She’ll have a lot to do, won’t she?”

“Oh yes.” Philippa confirms. “Starfleet or not, Kat will find a way to do good.”

Michael considers the deeply metaphorical nature of hers and Katrina Cornwell’s circumstances.

“I’m not worried, you know,” she finally says.

“About?” Philippa queries.

“Any of it.”

“Even though they won’t allow you back?” Philippa asks, sounding only slightly bewildered. “Seven years of service, all of your achievements, gone like they never mattered?”

Michael cannot help a soft laugh, and places her forehead on Philippa’s shoulder to hide her smile. An intimate move that would have made her nervous months ago, but feels as natural as walking now.

“An end?” Michael quotes Philippa’s words back at her. “Or a beginning?”

Philippa raises an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth quirking at the question.

“I’ve been getting offers since my second week out of the hospital, you know this. Labs, starships, exploratory groups…Human, Andorian, Tellarite…even a few Vulcan.”

“ _Vulcan_?” Philippa pronounces the word like it’s truly unbelievable. “My goodness, someone is truly going up in the universe.”

Michael smiles at the teasing.

“Well, I _am_ Michael Burnham,” She quotes the news channels with no little humor. “I walk through dimensions, time and space lie at my feet, the universe _dances_ at my fingertips.”

Philippa starts smiling halfway through the exaggerated recitation.

“Do you really think I’ll be lacking for things to do?”

“I suppose not,” Philippa concedes. “Still…” Michael feels her sigh in the drop of the shoulder on which her cheek is braced. “It all seems so incredibly unfair.”

Michael shakes her head with a smile. “Even if it is…that’s alright. The trial never mattered to me, you know that.”

“Well, it mattered to me.” Philippa’s voice is slightly bitter, and Michael frowns at it.

“This is far more than I ever thought I would have, Philippa.”

“An intensely low bar,” Philippa counters dryly.

“Perhaps,” Michael acknowledges. “But true nonetheless. This, all of this…”

Michael gestures with her chin at their linked arms, before sweeping her gaze out across the expanse of the ocean.

The shifting summer winds that she gets to feel on her skin every day, the sunlight that she gets to bask in, the warmth of Philippa’s skin, the fresh taste of vegetables, the chatter of Human voices, the steady thrum of the stars and planets above…

The small, incredible miracles of life.

“This is more than sufficient.” Michael sighs. “This is… _amazing._ ”

There is the soft whisper of a kiss at her temple, and Michael ducks her head at it.

“ _You_ are amazing,” Philippa counters softly, dark eyes shining with emotion. “I just...I wish could have done more for you.”

Michael smiles softly.

“Done more?” A truly amusing concept. “The quadrants are all hailing me as hero, I can’t go anywhere without being recognized…it’s like the binary stars never happened. The approval ratings for Starfleet are the lowest they have ever been in the organization’s history, and the Federation itself isn’t far behind.”

Michael exhales her astonishment, and feels a reciprocal tremble from somewhere deep in her chest.

“You made good on your threat…you brought the establishment down upon them…”

Philippa Georgiou, war hero and Starfleet legend, had moved heaven and Earth, practically turning back time itself. Wielding her political influence like a scalpel, her fame as a sledgehammer, she had pulled every string, called in every favor ever owed, all in an effort to return Michael Burnham’s good reputation to her.

With a shiver, Michael looks towards the ocean and imagines an anchor mooring her to the sea, preventing her from floating off into the starry night sky.

“All of these admirals about to lose their positions…the public losing faith in Starfleet…”

Michael shakes her head. “This will set an undeniable historical precedent.”

She and Amanda Grayson have talked about this many times, Amanda knowing far more of politics and galactic history than she does.

“They will think twice about running smear campaigns against people who cannot fight back,” Michael continues. “They will never do to anyone else what they did to me.”

Michael looks up at the night sky as she takes Philippa’s arm in her own.

“You have cleared my name in every way that matters. And I’m grateful.”

Michael blinks, and clings tighter to Philippa’s right arm as the beach spins beneath her, as the stars swirl and pulse in their courses, somewhere far beyond reckoning.

“ _So grateful_.”

Philippa smiles, her cheeks dimpling slightly; yet even as she does so, something dark flickers behind her eyes, something hesitant and dissatisfied.

Before Michael can study this further, Philippa tugs her in and presses an affectionate nuzzle into her curly hair. Michael’s heart skips a beat in her chest…then another, and another, before finally tripping over itself to resume normal rhythm.

“You amaze me, you know that...” Michael pulls away from the embrace slightly to look at Philippa. She shakes her head, because for all of her own scientific brilliance, this particular area is utterly beyond her.

Detangling the forces of nature and harnessing the power of the universe itself was one thing.

Politics was quite another.

“Making your stand in the media, all the leaks, the holo-footage of your own ship…” Michael’s mouth twitches. “It all reads like an old Earth political novel.”

“Perhaps that is where I got my inspiration,” Philippa suggests playfully.

“Is it?”

Philippa snorts. “One does not need to read old books to understand how the game is played, when you have been a captain for as long as I have, you pick up a few things.”

“Media connections?”

“Only natural after a long and illustrious career in Starfleet.”

“Constant surveillance of your own ship?” Michael raises an eyebrow.

“A _warship_ , Michael,” Philippa counters. “With a top secret scientific mission; naturally, security was tight.”

“Recording all of your communiqués with Starfleet command?”

Philippa scoffs. “Do I look like I was born yesterday?”

In lieu of verbal response, Michael only gives her a slow, dubious once-over, before quietly averting her eyes to face the ocean.

Philippa makes a sound of pure outrage, and a firm shove tips Michael into the sand. Playful hits pummel her body as Michael shakes with laughter, half-heartedly blocking the blows with one arm.

“You--- _you_ …give me that!” Philippa demands as she stretches across Michael’s flopped-over form towards the thermos of tea.

Michael giggles as she tries to restrain Philippa from reaching the tea. “No!”

“I am not spoiling you anymore, Michael, now give me that!”

Philippa’s tone is sharp, but her grin is palpable even with the majority of her face obscured by the thick waves of her hair.

“No!” Michael whines, even as she attempts to contain her laughter. “No, please, I’m sorry, I take it back!”

With no other options, Michael wraps her arms around Philippa’s slender frame and pulls her in tight, a move that serves as both restraint and an interesting type of horizontal hug.

Philippa goes still in her grip almost immediately, her arms coming to each side of Michael’s body to prop herself up. The tips of her hair brush against Michael’s chin, her neck, her collarbones, light whispers of sensation that nevertheless sends tingles through Michael’s body.

“I take it back,” She states once more, in a softer tone, Philippa’s stunning face only inches away, her body flush against Michael’s form, both of them sprawled in the moonlit sand.

Philippa is silent for a brief moment, tracing Michael’s face with dark, curious eyes.

 _A shade darker than usual,_ Michael notes, and is somewhat surprised at the sudden heat that suffuses her cheeks…as well as somewhere significantly lower.

Her physical attraction to Philippa Georgiou has never been ambiguous, not in the five years, ten months, nineteen days since her captain had walked onto the _Shenzhou’s_ bridge and greeted her with a smile and nod, causing Michael’s heart to skip a beat in her chest. However, the past three months of convalescence and recovery, both physical and mental, had significantly blunted such appetites.

 _Though they have certainly been returning as of late_ , Michael acknowledges, and brief snapshots flicker through her brain.

Philippa reaching behind her neck to secure her ponytail in place, a move accentuating the muscles in her arms, as well as the smooth skin of her upper back.

Philippa in a casual civilian dress, shimmering azure fabric tightening around her slim waist, dark hair cascading down her back in glowing waves.

Philippa bathed in the soft light of Earth’s single moon, her leonine form draped easily over Michael’s, coiled strength and gentle beauty, warmth and heat and…

…and…

“That was not funny,” Philippa murmurs, her breath ghosting softly across Michael’s lips.

Michael’s thoughts are scrambled by Philippa’s body pressed tightly against her own, one thigh between Michael’s legs, fingertips of her right hand pressed onto Michael’s collarbone for support, five points of aching, feverish contact.

 _Returning…with a vengeance…_ Michael amends weakly.

“It was a little funny…” She finally breathes, her gaze transfixed by Philippa’s full eyelashes, the delicate curve of her nose, the pale pink of her lips. The scant amount of air between them is far too thick for any type of efficient breathing, likely the reason why Michael’s heart is attempting to flutter out of her chest.

Philippa smiles slowly, almost predatorily, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. She leans in just another inch, her mouth a hair shy of grazing Michael’s own.

“ _Hysterical_.”

As if something in her has snapped, Michael leans up to close the distance, but Philippa only pulls away, mirth palpable as she quickly withdraws from Michael’s supine body.

Michael gasps out a breath, feeling quite like the beach has dropped from beneath her.

It takes another moment to pull herself together enough to drag her limp body out of the sand and back into a seated position. Dizziness aside, Michael gives thanks for her dark complexion and the sufficient lateness of the evening, both of which serve to hide her flush.

She notes, with some righteous satisfaction, that Philippa does not have the same advantage. The swirling night sky illuminates her pale skin, and the dusky pink tint to her cheekbones is quite apparent under the effervescent glow of the moon.

“That was ill-bred,” Michael accuses softly.

Philippa narrows her eyes. “You are one to talk.”

Michael only smiles, hoping to hit the mark between apologetic and innocent.

It apparently does trick. Philippa smiles back, albeit reluctantly.

“Glad to see you’re feeling better, my love,” she murmurs, though the electric charge in the air has yet to dissipate.

Michael understands that the physical aspect of this relationship has been slowly escalating over the past several weeks. Kisses growing more heated, lips and hands wandering ever further, the high flush that appears on Philippa’s cheeks whenever Michael slips up and swears in Klingon, the moans in her sleep that Michael greatly suspects are not due to nightmares…

The sheer physical need that had once been a constant in their relationship is back, and finally, _finally_ , nothing is stopping them from consummating it, yet something in Michael is insisting she hold off, that she wait.

As for what, she is uncertain, but she suspects that her current status as a technical prisoner of Starfleet Judicial Council has a great deal to do with why the timing simply doesn’t feel right.

“Have you—“ Michael’s voice trembles in an almost embarrassing way, and Philippa’s lips twitch at it. After another steadying breath, Michael tries again.

“Have you decided what you will do, after all of this is over?”

“Besides get some much needed rest?” Philippa asks dryly.

“Yes, besides that.” Michael clarifies with an amused smile, her cheeks still warm. “I know you were thinking about retirement, back before…everything. It was some years off, but...” She shrugs. “Has that changed at all?”

“Well, despite your apparent _thoughts_ on the matter,” Philippa casts a significant look towards Michael, who struggles to suppress her grin. “I am not quite ready to be put to pasture just yet.”

Michael cannot help but snort at that. Philippa rewards her with several sharp jabs to the side, and Michael only grins harder as she squirms away.

“You are ridiculous,” Philippa mutters. “You used to respect me, you know.”

“I still respect you…” Michael denies with wide innocent eyes. “Captain,” She tries, but Philippa seems unmoved. “ _Sir,_ ” Michael tries again, and Philippa huffs, rolling her eyes.

“Alright…” Philippa tugs her back in with an exaggerated show of reluctance, and Michael snuggles into her side, a pleased smile tugging across her lips. The night sky flickers above them, radiant with celestial beauty, and Michael closes her eyes briefly to savor the moment.

She imagines how this would look to anyone passing by.

_Two nameless women, wrapped up in each other._

_Two tired soldiers, watching the stars._

Philippa is still for several long moments, the wind tugging at the ends of her dark hair, her eyes going soft and pensive in the moonlight.

“I don’t want my last year in Starfleet to be one of war and suffering,” Philippa finally admits, the lilt of her voice harmonizing with the whispering ocean. “This life…my career…it has not always been easy, nor has it always been good, but to end on such a low note…”

Philippa trails off, and Michael considers this quietly, her cheek nestled on Philippa’s shoulder.

“That sounds reasonable to me,” Michael finally murmurs, placing a reassuring kiss on the juncture of Philippa’s neck and shoulder, smooth skin left exposed by the wide collar of her shirt.

“Does it?” Philippa’s voice is breathy; Michael wonders whether this is a product of surprise, or the feeling of Michael’s lips on her shoulder.

_A question worthy of further investigation._

“Of course. Why wouldn’t it?”

“After what… _hmm_ …what Starfleet has done to you, I would have thought… _oh_ , you…stop that.”

Philippa pushes at Michael’s arm, and Michael reluctantly ceases her affections on Philippa’s exposed neck.

Philippa pins her with a dry look. “I am trying to have a serious discussion with you, Michael.”

“Do I not look serious?” Michael deadpans with a raised eyebrow.

“You always look serious, that does not mean that you are.”

Michael only sighs with what she hopes is a sufficiently chastened expression.

" _Anyway_ ,” Philippa continues, pointedly rubbing at her neck with one sleeve. “You have no qualms about…me returning?”

“I was never under the impression that you wouldn’t,” Michael returns. Philippa looks unusually vulnerable at the moment…possibly even ashamed.

“Hey…” Michael reaches for her hand, gripping her index and middle finger in her own. “I would never want you to stop being who you are…no matter what Starfleet might do to me.”

“It feels…” Philippa swallows. “Hollow. Kat might resign, they won’t let you return… what right do I have to go back like none of it ever happened—“

“ _Every right,_ Philippa.” Michael cuts her off forcefully. “You have _every_ right.”

Philippa looks at her with wondering eyes.

“You don’t have to…” Michael searches for the right words. “Make yourself miserable just to protest my fate. You have done enough, more than enough, even.”

Michael raises an eyebrow. “You refused quite a few commendations, as I recall.”

Philippa snorts. “Like I need any more clutter on my shelves.”

The words are delivered lightly, but Michael understands the significance of a Starfleet legend refusing commendation, how a great many other captains had followed Philippa’s lead, to the admiralty’s immense chagrin.

Affection wells in Michael’s chest, tingling and warm.

“Your crew needs you. Your ship needs you.” Michael smiles. “And I think you need them.”

Philippa’s lips quirk at that.

“I want you to be happy,” Michael continues, her voice a soft, meaningful murmur. “You deserve it…you know that, right?”

Philippa’s only response is a quiet sigh.

“You do,” Michael insists.

“I _want_ to believe that,” Philippa whispers.

“What’s stopping you?”

Several heavy moments pass, the stars casting their soft glow across the beach. Philippa swallows, and Michael spots the clench of her jaw in the action.

“Philippa…” She rubs her thumb over Philippa’s knuckles in a soothing manner. “What is this really about?”

Philippa’s lips work, opening and closing as she struggles for an answer.

“Gods, Michael, I am so tired _…_ ” Philippa finally grates out, her voice trembling. “So _tired_ …of not being able to save you.”

The murmur of the heavens goes still, cast into stunned silence at the admission.

“The binary stars…a full year of war…the Battle for Earth itself…” Philippa’s eyes flutter shut, her face practically contorting with frustration. “I was so _helpless_ …helpless during your imprisonment, while you fought T’Kuvma, when you…ripped a hole in the universe to escape that ship…I could do nothing at all to help you, and that is all I wanted to do, Michael…”

The admission hangs between them, caught by the starlight and spun into something entirely new.

“That’s why the trial was so important to you…” Michael breathes, stunned at the emotion in Philippa’s words.

“It would have been your choice, of course, but…” Philippa jaw works as she thinks on her words. “I wanted to succeed at just one thing…I thought, if I could save you in just one small, _insignificant_ way …perhaps I could reverse my past mistakes.”

The words, the emotion, strike Michael dumb for a long, silent moment.

“But…you did.”

Michael’s lips tremble into a smile.

“You did save me.”

Philippa looks utterly bewildered at this, her eyes swimming with both hope and confusion.

Little by little, it all comes back to Michael. The parts of the past year of hell that she has tried not to think about for so long, but now, finally, has the strength to look at directly.

“You never stopped saving me…” She shakes her head at the realization. “Everything you taught me…everything you ever were, everything that ever happened to us in seven years…”

Michael clasps her arm tighter. “I used every bit of it. I couldn’t have done any of it without you. I couldn’t have _survived_ without you.”

Philippa still looks doubtful, a hint of disbelief in her eyes, and in a flash, Michael remembers her conversation with Sarek, earlier that same day.

_Verbal expression of such sentiments are valuable in their own way._

Michael rises to her knees, scooting in front of Philippa so as to hold her gaze. She takes a deep breath, opens her mouth…

And tells her everything.

Beneath the infinite banner of heaven, on the white sands of an empty beach on Palau Langkawi, Michael Burnham recounts seven long years of memories, of adventures and exploits and experiences, of trials and hardships, of failures and victories...

From Andawar II to the Kolvari smuggling ring, from the Phoebus Nebula to Doctari Alpha, sparring and dancing, lessons and wisdom imparted casually, almost carelessly, with no knowledge of how important they would one day become.

A connection spanning time and space.

A love scattered across the stars.

Throughout the recounting, Philippa’s face slowly morphs from disbelieving to awed, dark eyes pooling with emotion, and even as she speaks, Michael cannot help but wonder how she could have been so naïve as to think love could possibly be a mere feeling, not when she has seven years of evidence to the contrary.

Finally, finally, Michael gets to the Maw, her unbelievable feat of scientific prowess, one that nevertheless would have failed without Philippa’s quick, improvised intervention…

…and Michael’s own escape from captivity through one final wormhole, sparked to life by that stupid, illogical, reckless move, yet one that somehow _worked_ when science, tactics, reason had all failed her…

The kick that had saved her life.

Philippa bursts into wet laughter at this, a shaking hand coming up to cover her mouth.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Michael grins, her smile wide and unrestrained.

“But…” Philippa rubs at her eyes, runs fingers through her hair, head shaking in utter disbelief. “Gods, that's  _ridiculous_ , Michael…”

Michael snorts. “Completely.”

“I taught you that!”

“You did,” Michael agrees, leaning in closer, brushing their noses together. “ _You did, Philippa._ ”

“You—“ Philippa’s hands come up to cup Michael’s face, fingertips tracing her skin in an almost worshipful manner. Her dark eyes are wet and shimmering, and a single tear dislodges even as her lips tremble into a smile. Michael kisses it away tenderly before pressing her forehead against Philippa’s.

“You saved me…” Michael whispers. “You never stopped saving me, _never_ …”

No matter how far away they had been from each other, no matter how the war had separated them, physically and emotionally, Philippa had always, _always_ protected her.

If it were possible for a heart to go supernova, Michael would be stardust by now.

“That’s—“ Philippa’s voice shakes, and she takes several moments to wrestle it under control. “That’s very romantic, Michael.”

In response, Michael shrugs. “Well, it’s the truth.”

Philippa huffs out a weak laugh. “That’s exactly what makes it romantic.”

Michael considers this for several moments.

“I’m going to be very good this,” she finally states, and Philippa laughs again, carefree and happy, dazzling in the starlight.

And in the next moment, she closes the scant distance between them to bring their lips together.

The moon, the stars, the swiftly coursing planets sing in their courses far above them, but Michael hears their melody from somewhere very far away from herself. Philippa’s lips are upon hers now, and there is nothing, nothing more pressing than this particular fact.

Philippa's kisses are utterly intoxicating; Michael has no real knowledge of whether Philippa is particularly good at this, or if she herself is simply overwhelmed by the fact that it is _Philippa Georgiou_ kissing her, somehow, impossibly…finally.

Michael finds herself scooting closer for a position of greater comfort, her legs brushing against Philippa’s. A hand finds purchase on one of Michael’s thighs, and the gentle pressure sends heat flooding through her veins and into her heart. She gasps against Philippa’s lips, and somehow that very sensation of breath against skin sets her nerves alight.

There are no words, Michael knows. No collection of sounds or syllables or hand gestures in any language that could ever give form to this feeling. No equation or function or numeric that could ever come close to quantifying this force.

 _It was worth it,_ Michael realizes. _All of it._

Every decision she has ever made, everything that has ever happened, good and bad, all of it has brought her here. To this place, to this time, to this very moment…to this woman, who has saved her in every conceivable way.

With Philippa Georgiou in her arms, with the love burning through her veins, Michael thinks she could power a sun.

The kiss ends, but Michael’s eyes remain closed, her forehead leaning against Philippa’s, both quite unwilling to break this connection.

Finally, after an inconceivable, unknowable amount of time, Michael’s grip goes slack, and Philippa’s hands run slowly down her arms until their hands interlace between them.

Michael smiles slowly, peacefully, her heart filled with knowing calm.

“Everything is going to be okay.”

And she has never been more certain of anything in her entire life.

 

 

********

 

 

This courtroom has become all too familiar over the past three months, and Michael cannot help her spike of fierce pleasure that this will be the last time she will ever have to be here. She stares down the three seated admirals with her spine straight, her head held high, the _Shenzhou_ ’s remnant crew lining the back of the room in a show of defiant solidarity.

_Though not, strictly speaking, a legal one._

It _is_ amusing, Michael notes, how the rules and regulations governing Starfleet judicial cases seem to have fallen utterly to the wayside over the past several months.

“On the charge of Mutiny, the court finds the defendant…Guilty.”

Michael nods at this, arms clasped behind her back. Her attempt to take over the _Shenzhou_ might have been for noble reasons, but the legal definition of “mutiny” was quite clear.

“On the charge of Defection, the court finds the defendant…Not Guilty.”

She _does_ feel some relief at this particular ruling, the only one that she had felt any inclination to overturn.

“In light of extenuating circumstances, namely, the heroic actions of the defendant during the Klingon warlord T’Kuvma’s assault on Earth, the court has made the decision to waive the full sentence.“

Michael resists the urge to give the admirals a sardonic nod.

“Michael Burnham, you are hereby stripped of your rank-“

There are gasps of outrage from Georgiou’s crew standing in the back of the room, but Admiral Kepler continues in a louder voice.

“-and permanently discharged from Starfleet.”

With that, the crew descends into chaos, all but shouting at the judicial panel before her. Michael hears a few distinctly Malaysian swears among the protests, and can’t help the smile that crosses her lips.

“You are free to go, Ms. Burnham.”

She can’t say she’s exactly _happy_ with the outcome…but she’s walking out of the courtroom under her own power, stepping into sunlight and fresh air. She’s surrounded by her crewmates _,_ all of whom are vigorously proclaiming the unfairness of the ruling, and her captain, who is silent but obviously fuming.

They are being illogical, but Michael is pleased nonetheless at their loyalty. She had never, not in her wildest dreams during the past year, imagined she’d ever have anything like this again.

Philippa’s hand slides into her own, and Michael thinks her gratitude could ignite the stars.

 

 

 

 


	22. All Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title "All Night" references Beyonce's "All Night" from her most recent album "Lemonade," which is the mood I was going for when I wrote this chapter.
> 
> If that doesn't tell you what's coming, I don't know what will.

 

 

The transmission is waiting for Michael when they get back to Philippa’s apartment.

Michael activates the message with a confused look at Philippa, who looks back at her in equal confusion.

A hologram of a Vulcan woman dressed in fine administration robes springs up from the communication array. Michael’s dark eyes widen when she sees the insignia on the woman’s chest.

“ _Former Commander Michael Burnham. I am Minister Sevel. I speak for Vulcan High Command. In light of Starfleet Judiciary Council’s ruling, the Vulcan Expeditionary Group would like to offer you a position among our ranks as sub-commander aboard the vessel_ Mol-Kom, _our primary liaison vessel concerning Federation-Klingon relations.”_

The announcement rings in the air as Minister Sevel pauses for a moment.

“ _As the only non-Klingon being in the galaxy who has lived in such close contact with the race, you are the foremost expert concerning the Klingons and their nature, their customs…their ways. In addition to this already-impressive qualification, the Klingon Empire now holds you in higher esteem than any other outsider in existence due to your actions during the Battle for Earth. They will listen to you…they will work with you._ ”

Though it is only a hologram, Philippa can sense the deep respect in the Minister Sevel’s spine, in the squareness of her brow and the set of her shoulders.

“ _With your deep knowledge of their race, and your command of their respect, we believe that a future of lasting peace with a united Empire is within reach. As such, the Vulcan Expeditionary Group has no doubt that you will be a boon to its ranks._ ”

Sevel’s chin raises ever so slightly, her gray eyes grow firm and powerful, as if to predicate the significance of her oncoming words.

“ _This war has rent our galaxy apart. T’Kuvma’s drive for Klingon purity, his specieism, his xenophobia, nearly spelled the end for the Federation as we know it; and yet…it was unity that saved us all._ ”

“ _It was you, Michael Burnham, a Vulcan-raised Human, a product of interspecies cooperation…you ended this war singlehandedly._ ”

Sevel cocks her head, and for a brief moment, awe flickers across her impassive Vulcan features.

“ _There can be no more logical a conclusion drawn from this. Only by inclusion can we be strong. Only by diversity can we overcome the impossible._ _And only by example, can we have any hope of leading others into the future we wish to see._ ”

“ _We will give you ample time to consider our offer, and to make alternative requests if necessary._ ”

Minister Sevel nods once.

“ _Live long and prosper, Michael Burnham._ ”

The transmission winks out.

Stunned silence hangs over the room for several long moments.

Michael finally snorts.

Philippa looks to her in surprise, and is astonished to see a broad grin creeping across Michael’s lips.

The snort turns into giggles, which quickly evolves into genuine peals of laughter. The laughter escalates until Michael collapses limply into nearby chair, all but cackling with mirth, her beaming smile flashing in the afternoon sunlight. The joyful sound rings throughout the apartment, and Philippa’s heart flutters in her chest while warm blood rises to her cheeks.

She might be swooning again.

Through her laughter, Michael points weakly at the timestamp of the message.

It was sent a mere three minutes after the conviction.

Most likely pre-recorded, Philippa concludes. Vulcan High Command must have been monitoring Michael’s case closely, and prepared a transmission for every eventuality.

Not to mention…

… All messages to imprisoned Starfleet personal have to be vetted by high command before viewing. Philippa recalls that data entry and updates for Starfleet personnel files have an approximate eight-minute lag, meaning that Michael Burnham was still technically a prisoner when the transmission came through.

Starfleet Command saw this message.

Not only had the Vulcans finally claimed Michael Burnham as their own, they had done it in the biggest _fuck you_ to Starfleet that anyone in the universe could possibly manage.

Judging by the howling, shaking laughter, there is no doubt in Philippa’s mind that her former protégée worked through all of this in the split second after Minister Sevel winked out of existence.

Philippa approaches Michael, who is finally starting to wind down, wiping away tears of mirth.

“After that little display, I am very much uncertain if you are ready to return to a life among the Vulcans.”

Michael snorts at that, a smile pulling at both corners of her lips. Her eyes all but dance with mischief, and Philippa can barely keep a lid on her fluttering heartbeat.

“You heard the message, Philippa,” Michael quips. “They’ll be _quite_ lucky to have me.”

Michael stands suddenly. Her hands come up to frame Philippa’s face, and she leans in for a searing kiss. Philippa’s stomach flip-flops at the passionate gesture, but she returns the kiss with equal vigor.

Passion is something that has been missing from Michael Burnham for quite awhile now; apparently a humble job offer from an elite sect that once rejected her on frankly ridiculous grounds was enough to spark it back to life.

Philippa finally manages to pull away.

“Does that mean you’re taking the job?” Her voice is breathless, she’s completely disoriented and her lips are tingling.

Michael grins, her beautiful face barely an inch away.

“I don’t fucking know,” she laughs, and the use of profanity makes Philippa shiver with delight. Low heat simmers somewhere below her belly, and she pulls Michael back in and kisses her soundly.

Her physical reaction to Michael’s use of choice words is not a surprise at this point.

Philippa recalls the first time it happened, when Michael had stumbled sideways into the sharp corner of a table during her brief vacation on Pulau Langkawi. She’d spat out an impressive string of Human and Klingon curses, and it had taken every shred of Philippa Georgiou’s notoriously impressive self-control to not pin her former protégée to the wall and attempt to coax more such words from her, in whatever ways she possibly could.

The year of imprisonment changed a great many things about Michael Burnham.

Philippa has no complaints about this particular one.

The kiss intensifies. Michael’s fingers rise up to run through Philippa’s long hair, nails scraping gently at her scalp. She tugs at Philippa’s bottom lip, sucking and nibbling with just a hint of teeth. Philippa cannot stop a soft moan, and she grips the sides of Michael’s shirt to pull her body flush. Michael gasps against her lips at the sudden movement.

Philippa feels like a teenager again, like a cadet having her first sexual experience once more. Her skin tingles, hot threads of arousal dart up and down her spine, and she can practically feel how pink her cheeks surely are by now.

Michael’s kisses grow soft and playful, her plump lips teasing at Philippa’s mouth, light brushes across sensitive skin. Philippa feels her eyelids flutter at the sensation, her knees grow weak once more, even as she manages a quick nip to Michael’s lower lip.

“You _would_ be good at this,” Philippa manages in a breathy whisper.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” comes the reply, in a tone just as breathless.

Philippa attempts to center herself, not an easy task with Michael Burnham’s face only inches away, her eyes wide and dark with arousal.

“How—“ Philippa staggers, her voice hoarse. She shakes her head, and tries again. “How far do you want to take this? Because I will have trouble stopping, if you keep kissing me like that.”

Michael’s gaze softens, even as her kiss-swollen lips twitch into a smile.

The sight is almost too much, and it takes every scrap of control Philippa has to not pull the woman back in once more.

“I want…”

Michael trails off, her eyes going unfocused, as if her train of thought has gone up in smoke. Philippa cannot help but smile in amusement at the sight.

The implication is obvious, and she takes Michael’s hand and leads her across the apartment, warm summer sunbeams lighting their path.

They _have_ talked about it, of course. Philippa is well aware that what happens next will not be Michael’s first sexual experience, nor her second, nor even her third.

(“A representative sample of adequate population size” had been Michael’s dry response after Philippa, stunned by surprise and no little jealousy, had inquired as to gender and number.)

Still, Philippa knows that the past year has changed them both in many ways, and the last thing she wants is to make Michael feel any type of pressure. They finally reach the bed and Philippa opens her mouth to ask, but before she can say anything at all, Michael’s mouth is upon hers once more.

Philippa deepens the kiss almost instinctively, running her hands down Michael’s hair to cup her face. Her breath hitches when Michael’s fingertips brush her ears, her neck, teasing touches across sensitive patches of skin.

Never have her nerves felt so alight. Philippa wonders at the possibility that this is some type of Vulcan trick, and wonders further at how Michael could possibly know about these places on her body…

She breaks from the kiss to place her lips on Michael’s neck, brushing wet kisses up to her ear, and Michael whimpers at the sensation, mouth slack. She backsteps several feet until she hits the wall, and Philippa smiles triumphantly, fingertips pressing into Michael’s ribcage to hold her there.

Michael’s breath hitches audibly at the forceful action, but from her blown pupils and flushed cheeks, Philippa very much doubts that it’s a response from fear.

She checks in anyway.

“Is this alright, my love?” Philippa asks tenderly, her voice a light whisper just below Michael’s right ear. “Just tell me if you want me to stop.”

“If you stop, I will be upset,” comes the dry response, though an underlying tremor cuts through the even tone.

At that, Philippa levels a quick nip to Michael’s pulse-point, which, judging by her sound of pleasure, doesn’t quite fulfill its purpose as an admonishment.

But there are other matters to attend to at the moment, and Philippa allows this to go uncontested.

Michael sighs and shivers as Philippa layers open-mouthed kisses up and down her neck, all while her hands wander up and down Michael’s sides, tracing the indented ladder of her ribcage. Philippa bites at the spot just below her ear, soothing the bite with a stroke of her tongue, and Michael gasps audibly.

Every one of those sounds does wonderfully pleasant things to Philippa’s body. The captain decides that this will be her primary mission for the next hour or so.

Michael has other ideas.

Her hands come up to tangle in Philippa’s long hair, a pleasing sensation which distracts Philippa long enough for Michael to tug her face up into a bruising kiss.

“You seem to enjoy it—when I make audible—sounds of pleasure.”

Michael’s impartial scientific observation is somewhat derailed by hungry kisses to Philippa’s lips. Her mellow voice is a note or two lower than usual, desire all but dripping from the syllables. This, of course, only adds to the fire in Philippa’s belly, the heat coiling in her lower back.

“How could I not?” She whispers against Michael’s mouth, fingertips trailing lightly across her chest, drawing a brief gasp that Philippa firmly kisses away. “Have you heard you, Number One?”

 “ _Mmmh…_ ” Michael sighs at the question, or perhaps at the feeling of Philippa’s fingers tracing patterns just beneath her ribs. “I think…I might prefer to hear you… _Captain._ ”

The title is delivered in a teasing tone, and with an impish smile, Michael breaks the kiss to plant her lips on Philippa’s neck, just below her ear. Philippa gasps, shakes at the sensation, the wetness, the heat, the teasing brush of teeth at this particular spot.

And in the next second, Michael’s mouth closes around her earlobe, soft breath vibrating through Philippa’s ear canal.

With that, Philippa forgets herself, forgets where they are, forgets _who_ they are as warm, jagged spikes of _pleasure_ sing through her body with each pulse of her heart, dancing across her nerves and pooling in her lower back.

Michael’s teeth scrape ever so slowly up and down the shell of her ear, nibbling and nipping in turn, her tongue tracing and teasing at the cartilage. Philippa knows that she is shaking, likely gasping as well, but she registers this from somewhere very far away as Michael licks tenderly at the sensitive skin behind her earlobe, pulling long hair out of the way for better access. The teasing vibrations of breath in Philippa’s ear canal are suddenly replaced by the warmth of Michael’s tongue, and Philippa _moans_ at the sensation, her back arching of its own accord.

Michael continues her enthusiastic explorations, moving away from one ear to the other, and Philippa feels like she might be just a step away from becoming untethered from reality itself. The follow-up kisses to her neck, made overly sensitive from the attentions to her ears, send tendrils of warm pleasure down her spine, coiling in her lower back. It’s too much and too little at the same time, Philippa does not know whether she wants to lean into the contact or squirm away. Her body seems equally torn at the dilemma, shaking violently at the ministrations, quite out of Philippa’s control.

Finally, Michael lifts her head to catch her breath, and Philippa has a chance to get her bearings. Panting, she feels herself returning slightly from the altered state that Michael had induced.

She does not remember sitting down on the bed, nor does she remember Michael straddling her lap; nevertheless, that is the position they seem to be in at the moment.

“Wow…” Michael breathes from above her, and Philippa looks up to register the woman’s slack jaw, her blown pupils, her wet, swollen lips. Philippa imagines that she herself does not look much different.

After a shaky swallow, Philippa takes a steadying breath, even as she wipes the wetness from her ears. “Where…in the _hell_ …did you learn that?”

Michael smirks. “I am self-taught.”

Philippa delivers a light smack to her stomach, even as she steadies her breathing. “You seemed to know exactly where to go.”

“Years of information-gathering,” Michael states with a soft smile.

“Oh?” Philippa raises a disbelieving eyebrow. “And what was the source of this information? I believe I would have remembered, had you done anything of this nature to me in the past.”

“You would never forget it,” Michael deadpans, and _Gods,_ when had the woman become so feisty?

“It was several occurrences,” she continues, “where circumstance necessitated that I impart information to you via…whispering into your ear. Your physical reaction was well-controlled, it took me a great deal of time to uncover it.”

Philippa huffs out a laugh, rolling her eyes at Michael’s attempt to comfort her over the discovery of one of her body’s most pleasurable spots.

“Though I must say, that was a far more… _significant_ …response than I was expecting.”

“Well, it _has_ been awhile,” Philippa counters frankly.

“Oh?” Michael’s voice drops, her dark eyes grow even darker.

An amused smile twitches at Philippa’s lips. “Are you excited?”

“I _was_ excited,” Michael corrects. “Now I would say that I am… _elated._ ”

No longer able to stop herself, Philippa pulls Michael’s face back in, kissing warm, swollen lips. She wonders, briefly, whether it is scientifically possible to become punch-drunk on the feeling of Michael’s mouth on hers, if the sensation of smooth skin beneath her fingertips has any type of intoxicating properties, if the firm weight of Michael Burnham across her thighs could possibly be linked to the medical high she is almost certainly experiencing at the moment.

“Seems I underestimated you, love,” she whispers against Michael’s lips, and feels the woman shiver slightly beneath her hands.

“You should know better than that by now,” Michael murmurs back, warm affection lacing her voice. From her position above Philippa, Michael’s dark skin seems to glow in the sunlight, her curls refracting the beams in a truly dazzling display. Her color has returned with a vengeance through weeks of exposure to Langkawi’s sunlight, dark brown and radiant with health. Were she in a different mood, Philippa thinks she might compose sonnets on the warmth of her love’s skin, whole stanzas to the sparkles in her berry-brown eyes, poetry elegizing the starlight that glows from each and every ringlet of her hair…

“You’re beautiful...”

It takes Philippa a moment to realize that she is not the one who said it.

And for _God’s_ _sake_ , she is too old to be ducking her head like this, too damn old for shy, pleased smiles. At the very least, her cheeks are already hot from their previous activity, rendering any physical blush undetectable.

Michael’s lips are at her forehead now, her cheeks, her nose, she can feel a happy smile in the curve of her lips, in the tremble of the hands cupping her face.

_And why on Earth shouldn’t she be happy?_

Joy wells up in Philippa’s chest now, rising higher and higher until it finally bubbles over and cascades through her limbs, her face, every corner of her body. She grins and pulls Michael’s face in to kiss her hard and firm, reveling in the crazy, insane idea that she is _here_ , they both are.

With a burst of elation, Philippa twists her hips in a martial arts move that she can honestly say she has never used for this particular purpose. In a flash, Michael is flat on her back in the bed and laughing with astonishment at the throw.

How lucky Philippa is, that she gets to hear that laughter, that she gets to see it, that she gets to _cause_ it.

Philippa crawls up Michael’s supine body, still trembling with soft, joyful laughter. She tugs at the clasp of Michael’s civilian shirt, the woman having shucked her Starfleet uniform practically at the second the judgment was passed.

“I want to see you…” Philippa murmurs, and Michael’s eyes darken even as she sits up. Between the two of them, the shirt comes off easily, and Philippa is both surprised and aroused to see that Michael has not bothered with a bra today.

No doubt mistaking arousal with confusion, Michael merely shrugs. “Seemed unnecessary.”

“Do you hear me complaining?” The question comes out as more of a sigh than anything else, and Philippa gently pushes Michael onto her back to better see her exposed form.

Smooth brown skin, collarbones far more exposed than they should be, ribs and abdominal muscles clearly visible through the miniscule layer of fat protecting them. Philippa’s heart trembles as she gazes at her love’s abused body, and makes a mental note to add more calorie-dense options to the replicator programming.

“Not quite how I used to be…”

Philippa jerks out of her reverie at Michael’s murmured apology. The woman’s face carries a self-conscious hint about it, and Philippa realizes that she herself has been silent and still for too long.

Managing a soft smile, Philippa traces her hand across Michael’s stomach, up her ribcage, carefully skirting her left breast (not missing the hitch in Michael’s breath as she does so), across her collarbone to cup her face, rubbing at the pale scar on her cheek.

“I don’t think I could possibly find you more beautiful, my love.”

Michael smiles at the words, her dark eyes shimmering with affection, and a reciprocal smile tugs at Philippa’s lips. Yet even as it does, her gaze drops helplessly towards the pale scar on Michael’s abdomen.

Her hand twitches away from Michael’s cheek to trace over the healed wound, where the _mek’leth_ had penetrated with cruel conviction. Philippa’s fingertips brush the raised surface, cataloguing the wound, recalling flames and grunts and murky heat from that Klingon ship, T’Kuvma’s dark, snarling face, that _awful_ moment—

Her angst-filled musings are interrupted by a soft snort.

Philippa looks up to see Michael’s lips working into a reluctant grin while her body wriggles helplessly.

“That tickles.”

The admission brings a smile to Philippa’s face, even as she files that information away for later use.

“I didn’t know Vulcans could be ticklish,” She teases.

Michael’s expression turns sheepish. “Looks like this one is.” With a gentle hand, she guides Philippa’s fingers to her lips, pressing soft kisses to her fingertips. “It’s okay, Philippa. _I’m okay_.”

Philippa manages a watery smile. “I don’t think I will ever stop being grateful for that.”

Sitting up now, Michael wraps her arms around Philippa, holding her tightly. Philippa sighs into the embrace, relishing the smooth, warm expanse of Michael’s bare shoulders beneath her hands. How lucky she is that she gets to have _this_ with Michael, that the woman she loves so desperately came back from the dead not even once, but twice. Hell, three times if she counts the depressurization of the brig during the Battle at the Binary Stars.

And all of it, to get back to her.

Philippa jumps a little when Michael’s hands slip under the back of her jacket, teasing up the sides of her spine with feather-light touches.

“I can think of a few ways for you to demonstrate your gratitude,” Michael suggests.

Philippa manages a laugh, which becomes a hitched gasp when Michael moves her hands around her sides and under her ribs.

“Or perhaps I can demonstrate mine?” Her hand moves to the zipper of Philippa’s jacket, and with her help, it comes off easily. They tag-team the shirt and bra underneath, and they land somewhere near one of the walls, Philippa really isn’t paying much attention.

Michael stares at Philippa’s naked torso, awe and arousal obvious in the slight part of her lips and the darkness of her eyes.

“Seems I have a great deal to be grateful for,” she manages breathlessly, and Philippa barely clamps down on the urge to giggle at the woman’s antics.

“Were you going to demonstrate anytime soon, or must I—hah!”

Michael’s lips close around her nipple. Her tongue flicks at the tip in a tickling, teasing manner, and Philippa lets out a moan of surprise and pleasure. Her hands tighten their grip on Michael’s back, and her fingernails dig, quite unintentionally, into the woman’s skin.

“ _Ghah…_ too hard, Pip,” Michael gasps, and Philippa releases her as if burned. Before she can pull away to apologize, Michael grasps her hands and redirects them up and into her curly hair. She gives Philippa a forgiving smile before continuing her efforts.

Philippa’s breath hitches and sighs at the feeling of Michael’s lips on her chest. She sucks hard and firm around one nipple and caresses the other with long, agile fingers. Her breasts have never been her most pleasurable area, but _by the Gods_ , Michael swirls her tongue, nips gently and Philippa shudders at the sensation.

Michael’s hands drop to her sides, tracing over skin and scars-

-and she stops the motions of her mouth almost immediately. Philippa emits a sound of protest as Michael releases her nipple.

“When did this happen?”

Michael brushes her fingers over the poorly healed phaser burn on Philippa’s back, a few inches to the right of her lower spine. The wound is relatively new compared to all of the other scars, of course Michael would pick up on such a thing.

Philippa hesitates before answering. “It was…during our fight on the bridge of T’Kuvma’s ship.”

“I don’t remember you taking a hit.” Michael’s brow furrows.

Philippa can’t help the bitter snort. “You wouldn’t.”

She clamps down on the memories of her love’s skewered body and empty gaze. Her hands come up to cup Michael’s cheeks yet again, and judging by the slightly horrified look on her face, she’s starting to put the pieces together.

“Can we talk about it later, my love?” She plants a kiss on the woman’s forehead. “Only we were right in the middle of something, I believe.”

Michael’s dark eyes are wide and swimming, though she remains silent. With trembling fingers, she traces over the phaser burn on Philippa’s lower back, no doubt cataloguing each ridge and web of burned tissue. There is little sensation left in the area, nerve endings destroyed by the intense, blistering radiation of the Klingon phaser; still, something in Philippa’s chest grows warm at the notion of the woman she loves touching this particular wound with tenderness and care.

“How did we both make it off of that ship?” Michael’s question is a stunned whisper, her breath brushing across Philippa’s collarbone.

A question that Philippa has considered a great many times. She knows full well how lucky they are: lucky that this particular phaser beam likely ricocheted off of multiple solid surfaces before striking her, the only possible reason she had survived the blast. Lucky that Saru had been quick with his transport. Lucky, even, that Michael had remained aboard the flagship, that she had had Klingon doctors to save her life, since before the war, the Federation did not have any efficient countermeasures for wounds caused by Klingon blades.

Philippa holds Michael tighter to her chest at the thought, closing her eyes and burying her nose in Michael’s thick curls.

Had Michael made it back to the transporter room with Philippa, she would have died of her injuries in the _Shenzhou_ ’s sickbay.

_The only reason she survived that stabbing is because the Klingons saved her._

The irony is truly poetic.

Michael’s hands slide up to Philippa’s face, brushing her cheeks and pulling her in for a long, soothing kiss. Philippa closes her eyes and allows everything else in the universe to fall away, everything besides Michael’s warm skin, her full lips, the pads of her fingertips on Philippa’s face, brilliant beams of afternoon sunlight illuminating the scene in a warm, hopeful glow.

_Lucky indeed._

“We…” Michael breathes when they finally part, trailing off in an obvious daze. “…we match, you know.”

Philippa considers this for a moment, the roughly similar placements of their scars sustained in a single five minute-long altercation at the Binary Stars; a short, intense fight that had changed both of them, that had changed _everything_ …forever.

“That is not something we will ever brag about,” she finally states, and Michael smiles at her dry tone.

“I am so happy you’re alright,” she murmurs, dark eyes shimmering in the sunlight. She runs her fingers through Philippa’s long hair, over her shoulders, down the skin of her ribcage, warm, gentle touches that make Philippa sigh with pleasure.

“I am, Michael, I am,” she whispers reassuringly, cupping Michael’s face and pulling her close. “ _We_ are.”

The mood has become somber, not at all what Philippa had imagined for their first time; thus, she employs what she hopes will be an effective countermeasure. She presses her lips to Michael’s forehead and continues downward, dotting tiny kisses down the bridge of her nose and across her both of her cheeks until the woman is giggling at the attentions.

Philippa thinks she could become intoxicated on that sound alone.

She places one final kiss on Michael’s lips, and gently pushes her back down onto the bed. She wastes no time in dipping her head down and kissing along the ridge of one of Michael’s collarbones, brushing her fingertips across the other like she’s skimming them across a pool of water. Her nails scratch gently along Michael’s skin, and the woman gives a low whine.

“Ohhh _…_ that-- that feels good.” Michael’s voice trembles, it sounds like she might be barely holding in a gasp, and Philippa feels desire spike somewhere well below her navel. Making her composed, Vulcan-raised former first officer come to absolute pieces was certainly an exciting prospect.

And they had barely even _started_.

Philippa eagerly moves her lips lower, kissing and nipping at the skin around one taut brown nipple, and Michael’s back arches beneath her.

“ _Ahh…_ ” Her moan is high-pitched and almost desperate. “You… _oh_ \-- should have known you would be a tease.”

Philippa smiles wickedly at this, even as she traces lightly around the other nipple with a single, clever finger.

“You say that like you don’t enjoy it.”

Michael opens her mouth to respond, but whatever she was going to say is lost in a heated moan as Philippa dips her head to continue her ministrations. Michael’s hands come up to tangle in her long hair as she does so, and her body quivers as Philippa kisses and traces and steadfastly avoids the spots where she knows Michael aches to be touched.

“ _Philippa…_ ” Michael groans her name in a pleading voice, tugging at her hair impatiently, and _Gods,_ Philippa thinks she might be able to come from that alone, were she to concentrate hard enough.

But she has other things to concentrate on, important matters that require the entirety of her focus, and she finally slides her tongue across Michael’s straining nipple while brushing her thumb over the other. Michael throws her head back against the pillow and descends into breathy, gasping whimpers.

Philippa continues to lick, moving her tongue in concentric circles and kneading ever so slightly with her teeth. Her fingertips travel where they will, teasing at Michael’s other nipple, brushing down her ribcage, up and over her collarbone, and Michael is shuddering and shaking like a leaf at the attentions. Her hands clench and unclench at her sides until she apparently realizes that she has more options, and she reaches up to trail her fingers across Philippa’s upper back, caressing taut muscles and faded scars. Even as Michael explores, Philippa can feel her hands twitch and spasm with pleasure, and the notion makes her clit practically _throb_ with need.

She moves her mouth from one nipple to the other and redoubles her efforts, sucking and swirling hard, with the occasional gentle bite. The first nipple is still slick and swollen, and she runs teasing fingertips across it in random, unpredictable patterns, tickling gently with smooth nails.

Michael arches her back, mouth open and panting. “Hah—hah!—“ Philippa trembles despite her best efforts. Those breathy gasps might be the most potent aphrodisiac that she has ever experienced, and she has experienced a great many in her thirty years of service.

Feeling a little inspired, Philippa moves a thigh between Michael’s legs, pressing into her center. Michael wriggles her hips a little to get used to the sensation, until she finds the position that makes her eyes go wide, her jaw go slack. Philippa has never seen the woman’s pupils blown to such proportions.

It’s an incredible look for her.

“Better…than I imagined…” Michael gasps, brown eyes huge and trembling.

Philippa’s mouth is hanging open slightly from the sight of Michael Burnham so completely undone, but the words cause her to smile in amusement. “Oh? You imagined this?”

“So many times-“ Michael’s hips slide against her legs and she twitches, breath hitching at the sensation.

“Tell me…” Philippa runs teasing fingers up Michael’s stomach to her breasts, brushing over both nipples in turn. “Please?”

Michael’s eyes lose focus at the “please”, she seems to be in some type of daze as her hips spasm helplessly against Philippa’s thigh.

“I—I -- , _oh_ , use your mouth again Philippa, please _, please-_ “

Philippa wonders if it would be bad form to plunge a hand into her uniform pants while complying with the request. Her clit is practically vibrating with how turned on she is, she isn’t sure how much longer she can handle the sounds Michael is making, and Gods, the _begging-_

Michael’s hand flashes out to grip her wrist in a vice.

Philippa realizes dimly that she’s lost the internal battle with her libido, and her now-trapped hand is more than partway beneath her waistband.

“Let me.” Michael growls, and before Philippa can so much as utter a sound, Michael is sitting up, wrapping one arm around her waist to hold herself upright, the other being attached to the hand that is _sliding into Philippa’s pants-_

Her fingers tease outside of her underwear, stroking and tickling and brushing over swollen flesh. Philippa’s hips buck helplessly at the sensations, and she throws back her head and gasps.

“Turning-the-the ---tables---on me?” She stutters out, and Michael gives a throaty laugh from somewhere at Philippa’s chest.

“ _When we are able to attack, we must seem unable.”_ The quote comes in a low cadence and is so utterly suggestive that Philippa is uncertain whether to she ought to blush on Sun Tzu’s behalf.

Michael’s thumb finds her clit with unerring accuracy, and she gently, ever so gently skims the surface through the fabric. “You taught me well, Captain,” she whispers.

“ _Ahhh…”_ The tendrils of pleasure are back now, darting through her legs, up and down her spine, Gods, she hasn’t been touched like this in so long, and considering who is doing the touching-

Philippa wraps her arms around Michael’s back like she’s the only solid thing within twelve light-years, and she quakes and whimpers from the teasing attentions to her clit. Michael’s thumb brushes and rubs, and it’s soft, barely-there contact, the way she likes it, not that there is any way Michael could have known that coming in…

…Right?

Michael’s fingers quickly banish the possibility from her mind. She pushes Philippa’s underwear to the side, and in the same motion, slides her index finger deep inside.

“ _Oh!—“_ And Philippa descends into a string of Malay swears. Michael gasps at the words from her place at Philippa’s chest, and finally seems to remember where her thumb is.

She moves the digit slightly lower and skims it across Philippa’s clit, moving quickly but so incredibly _lightly._ The fluttering, tickling sensation is completely unbearable, and Philippa cants her hips helplessly, looking for something more, something less, _something_ …

Michael slides in another finger, and the added pressure, the doubled force, both serve to drive Philippa’s pleasure to a higher realm. The vibrating heat from her center darts up her spine, down her legs, and she moans long and low into Michael’s neck as her hips shake and tremble on Michael’s clever fingers, the sensations grow to a truly staggering crescendo—

Michael murmurs something low in her throat, something rasping and guttural and decidedly not-English, her thumb presses down at the same moment, and Philippa finally falls apart.

She gasps as she comes, orgasm making her every muscle clench and spasm, and she very, very narrowly manages to not bite down hard on her protégée’s exposed shoulder.

She knows Michael will not appreciate that sort of pain.

The feeling lasts far longer than she’s used to, and through the waves of agonizing pleasure, Philippa can’t help but wonder if it will ever stop. Michael continues the teasing attentions on her clit, the fingers inside Philippa dance in a maddeningly unpredictable pattern, keeping her on a high that she is uncertain she will ever make it back from.

Finally, _finally,_ the waves ebb, the muscle spasms ease, and Philippa can open her eyes and see something that is not darkness and supernovas. She collapses limply against Michael, who holds her body close, even while gently withdrawing the hand from her pants.

The feeling of Michael’s warm, sweating skin to hers is nothing short of fantastic. Being held like this is perfection itself.

“I love you.” Philippa whispers somewhat hoarsely, and she feels Michael squeeze tighter in response.

“I love you too,” Comes the response. “So much.”

Michael turns her face upwards, resting her chin on Philippa’s chest. Her eyes are wide and dark with desire. “You are… _incredible_ , watching you come undone was-“

“Well,” Philippa manages. “You _will_ be returning the favor, Michael, I hope you know.”

“Oh?” Michael whispers, her excitement plain.

“Yes…” Now feeling quite a bit more than a second wind, Philippa slides her hands down Michael’s sides to the top of her pants. “Several times, if I have anything to say about it.”

“You won’t have to try very hard.” Michael’s voice trembles as they start working her out of her pants.

“Oh, just you try to stop me from trying hard.” Philippa whispers fiercely.

She dismounts Michael’s lap in a smooth motion to tug her pants down her legs. A mixture of arousal and apprehension flashes across Michael’s face, but before she can say anything at all, Philippa is tossing her pants to the side and running a curious finger over her underwear.

Black, utilitarian, Vulcan… desperately gorgeous on her.

With her other hand, she presses Michael back to lie on the bed once more, her legs dangling over the edge.

“If you want me to stop, tell me,” Philippa murmurs, not wanting to press her lover into anything she may not yet be ready for.

“And if I want you to start?” Michael deadpans.

Philippa retaliates with a playful pinch to her hipbone, and Michael lets out a very un-Vulcan-like squeak.

“You _could_ be a little more patient,” she suggests with a teasing jut of her chin, tracing a long finger around Michael’s naval. “You know I can make things very difficult for you…”

Michael’s dark eyes grow even darker, her swollen lips part several centimeters; Philippa wonders what aspect of this particular interaction is turning her on, the touching, the banter, the threat, Philippa above her…

Philippa ducks her head down to kiss across Michael’s stomach, placing several extra atop the pale scar in the middle right quadrant. Michael squirms and wriggles at the attentions, her fingers tangling in Philippa’s hair, a thoroughly pleasant sensation.

_It’s not “teasing” if this was part of the plan._

Philippa clings to this assertion as she kisses and touches, because she has thought about this particular experience many, _many_ times. As such, she had decided a great while ago that she would take her time, when the moment finally came.

She wants to worship every inch of Michael Burnham, she wants to brush fingertips across that beautiful brown skin and kiss every part of her body, she wants to explore and learn and glean what wisdom she can from Michael’s breathy gasps, from her trembling, from the twitches of her muscles spasming with pleasure…she wants to see the woman undone slowly, ever so slowly, so she can savor each and every step in the process.

Michael’s hips buck when Philippa finds a sensitive spot just below her ribcage, and with a surge of elation, she purses her lips to suck hard at the skin, her tongue swirling a gentle pattern.

“Ohhh…Touch me, _please,_ Philippa.” Michael’s hand tugs at her hair, and Philippa feels warm desire spike between her own legs once more. A rather quick turn-around, but she has other matters to focus on presently.

Namely, making her lover say her name like that once more, and perhaps even coax her mellow voice into a scream.

Unable to stop herself, Philippa’s hand slips between Michael’s legs to trace the wet heat through her underwear, and Michael’s ensuing moan is high and eager, hips canting, desperate for contact, for pressure.

Gods, those _sounds_ , Michael’s arching back, her warm brown skin against the white of the comforter, the soft bounce of her curls as she throws her head back, her beautiful face slack with tortured pleasure…

Philippa wonders _how_ exactly she has made it so long in this lifetime while deprived of this particular sight.

Her fingers tease at the sensitive flesh between Michael’s legs, even as she dips her head to take a nipple into her mouth once more.

“Hah _…oh —“_ Whatever Michael snarls next is definitely not English, and Philippa shudders at the rasp of the Klingon syllables on her lover’s lips. With a sudden hunger, Philippa surges up to take Michael’s mouth in a bruising kiss, as if to swallow the guttural words away.

“You know— what that does to me…—“ she whispers fiercely against Michael’s lips, stealing kiss after kiss after kiss, her fingers coming up to tease at the nipple she has just released.

Michael moans into her mouth, and Philippa shakes at the heady rush of pleasure that courses through her body.

“No worse…than what you…havedonetome—“ Michael’s last words come out in a rush as Philippa’s hand leaves her breast and finally, _finally_ dips into her underwear.

“Oh, I’ve barely started with you…” Philippa murmurs, her fingertips pressing over warm wetness, so slick with arousal that she can barely find purchase. Still, she traces and teases and explores this private place, desire pooling in her stomach at how soaking wet Michael seems to be for her.

Michael, for her part, looks as if her soul has left her body, dark eyes wide open, muscles clenched and quivering.

“Mmm…do you like that?”

A needless query; from the way Michael’s legs seem to be shaking and the sheeny blackness of her pupils, the question was answered before it was even asked.

Still, Philippa’s brain is quick to spot patterns, and she wonders at the effect her voice might have on her lover, if Michael enjoys the additional auditory stimuli…if coaxing and teasing her in this non-physical way might add to her experience.

“Have I rendered you speechless, my love? I wonder what the Klingons might call me…” Philippa delivers the words with grin as she traces her thumb upwards on her search.

Michael’s hips give a sudden jolt, and the sound she makes might be a gasp or a moan, there is no telling.

Philippa needs no further prodding, and circles her thumb gently around this particular spot, the one that seems to bring such wild pleasure to her lover.

“ _Ahhh…_ Philippa!”

By all the Gods and galaxies above, if Michael continues to say her name like that, Philippa swears that she will not be held responsible for her actions.

She circles her thumb faster and teases at Michael’s entrance with her remaining fingers, cataloguing each and every reaction. Michael’s back arches, her head thrown back, and the high-pitched moans coming from her throat sound like music.

“In me…” Michael grates out, her hands clenching at the comforter. “ _Aghh_ …please _…”_

“So polite,” Philippa whispers, unsure if she can manage a higher volume at the present moment. The hand that is not coaxing Michael to a new realm of pleasure slides up her stomach to trace around taut nipples, and Michael whimpers at the contact, face contorted.

“ _Philippa_ …”

Philippa only smiles. “I did say I could make things very difficult for you, did I not?”

She presses slightly with her thumb, and Michael’s rebuttal is lost in a low moan.

“Gods, you’re beautiful.” The words slip from Philippa’s mouth almost accidentally, but she means them with every fiber of her being.

“And you…are a _tease_ …”

Michael all but growls the rebuttal, despite the words being punctuated by a soft gasp. She pulls her torso off the bed, propped up by an elbow tucked behind her back.

Her expression is somehow dry and desperate at the same time.

“Are you planning on getting me off any time soon?”

Philippa clenches her jaw and swallows harshly at the sexual slang, so damn arousing from the mouth of her proper, well-spoken Vulcan-raised lover. Michael’s lips twitch, and there is no doubt in Philippa’s mind that her body language is broadcasting her thoughts.

In response, Philippa withdraws her hand from Michael’s underwear. Michael opens her mouth to protest, but her jaw snaps closed once more when Philippa begins to tug the underwear down her long legs. Michael’s resulting sigh is audible, _palpable_ , even, in the slight shift of her body, and Philippa feels a rush of reciprocal excitement at it.

With bated breath, she slides her hands down Michael’s thighs, cataloguing the stunning contrast of her rich brown skin on the white comforter, a sight made all the more radiant by the afternoon sunlight piercing the floor-to-ceiling windows. Philippa kneels onto the carpeted floor as her hands proceeds downward, and she places a kiss on one of Michael’s knees while guiding her feet out of the underwear. A blind toss jettisons the scrap of cloth to some unknown corner of the room.

Unable to stop herself, Philippa presses her cheek into the dark skin of Michael’s thigh, her hands pressing firmly as they slide up the expanse of her legs. Smooth, solid, warm with life…not so powerful as they were back in their _Shenzhou_ days, but Philippa is struck dumb nonetheless as she touches and explores.

She hears Michael’s amused huff, and fingertips come to comb lovingly through Philippa’s hair.

“You’re still half-dressed,” Michael points out softly from somewhere above Philippa.

“Need to leave you with something to do…” Philippa breathes the rebuttal, and Michael sighs once more at the kisses layered up the inside of her thighs.

“Well, you would know…a thing or two about…leaving something to be done…”

The teasing tone of Michael’s statement is apparent, even through her pleased sighs.

“So impatient…” Philippa smiles into the skin of one of Michael’s legs, even as her hands trace ever higher. “I suppose I should not be surprised…”

She inhales, and the scent of musk, of warm, wet heat so damn close to her face sends a sudden spike of arousal down Philippa’s spine, bursting in a hot ache somewhere between her legs. With a steadying swallow and a quick glance at Michael’s face above her, Philippa barely manages the question.

“Is this alright?”

Michael’s eyes are dark, swirling pools of desire, her lips parted ever so slightly in her seated position at the edge of the bed; even so, she manages a dry raise of one eyebrow.

“Just eat me out, Philippa.”

And by the _Gods_ , Philippa is thankful that she is already on her knees because that sentence alone would have dropped her like a rock, had she been standing. Still, her hands tighten their grip around Michael’s thighs, and Michael’s hips twitch slightly at the move, her intake of breath audible.

She _will_ laugh about it later, they both will in all likelihood, but right now, Philippa has other, better things by which to occupy her time (and her mouth). She guides Michael’s legs around her shoulders and holds them there, and without further delay, begins to lick at the hot wet between Michael’s thighs.

Michael stiffens almost immediately, releasing a moan in a high timbre that Philippa has not yet heard from her. Her thighs flex around Philippa’s head, her hands grip Philippa’s hair hard, but the pain is indistinguishable from pleasure in Philippa’s current state of intoxicated arousal.

Michael’s taste is not unpleasant; slightly salty, a thoroughly Human tang that has Philippa addicted from the first sweep of her tongue. She traces through slick folds, teasing with her mouth as she had teased with her fingers only a minute before.

With a sharp breath, Michael flops backwards onto the bed. Her gasps increase in both volume and pitch, fingers tugging slightly in Philippa’s hair as she sucks and nibbles and explores with joyous abandon. Michael’s hips shake violently, and Philippa grips her thighs hard, fingertips splayed, to hold her in place.

“ _Ahhh…_ oh, oh yes _, yes!_ ”

Philippa wonders dimly if Michael is truly this vocal, or if she is doing all of this for Philippa’s benefit.

 _Whichever it is, it’s working…_ The throbbing heat between her own legs is growing unbearable, and Philippa clenches her thighs to stay focused.

Eager now, Philippa traces her tongue upwards, licking and licking until she finds that small, sweet pinpoint of nerves. She flicks her tongue once, twice, before sucking hard, and Michael’s spine bends almost double. Her moans turn to a high keening sound, which rings through the bedroom like a brilliant melody.

Philippa alternates between sucking and warm, gentle licks to Michael’s clit, gripping her thighs hard as her body trembles violently.

Michael’s fingers clench suddenly around Philippa’s hair, her bare feet flex somewhere at the level of Philippa’s hips, toes curling in hard. Her body thrashes on the bed, jerking against the white of the comforter.

“ _Ahhh…_ oh, _oh_ Philippa! I—I’m—“

Philippa feels almost dizzy at Michael’s choked-out words; nevertheless, she holds tightly to Michael’s legs as her thigh muscles shake out of control. She laps with quick, warm strokes and sucks through pursed lips, pleasuring Michael’s clit with near-wild abandon until the woman’s cries turn hoarse, until her thrashing slowly, slowly, turns to trembling shivers.

Even then, Philippa continues to lick, gentle and curious, exploring each ridge and hidden fold, tasting her lover’s essence with each tender caress of her tongue. She guides Michael down from her high slowly, carefully; yet even as she does so, brushes of Philippa’s tongue in certain places make Michael twitch, her breath catch, and Philippa files this knowledge away for later.

Finally, a slight push to Philippa’s forehead makes her duck her head away. She lays several kisses on the soft skin of Michael’s thighs before wiping her mouth and pushing mussed up hair out of her face. Philippa takes a steadying breath, then another, before rising from the floor to take in her lover.

Michael is lying flat on the bed, her breasts trembling with uneven breaths, one arm draped over her eyes as she attempts to center herself. Her coily dark hair is wild and scattered across the white expanse of the comforter, and her brown skin carries a shiny sheen of sweat.

She looks thoroughly debauched.

Philippa drinks in the sight and thinks that there could not possibly be anything more beautiful, more dazzling, more _perfect_ than this _,_ than Michael Burnham lying here in Philippa’s bed, alive, happy, and pleasured within an inch of her life.

Michael reaches out to her, and Philippa allows herself to be tugged onto the bed. She pulls Michael’s body close, nuzzling their faces together with a smile, and the warm feeling of skin-on-skin is pure bliss. Afternoon sunlight glows through the windows, Michael’s beautifully naked form presses into hers, and Philippa decides that if heaven does exist, she is not interested.

Not when she can have _this_ , here on Earth.

“It’s never…felt like that…before…” Michael murmurs as her chest rises and falls, her eyes at a pleased half-mast.

Philippa smiles tenderly into her cheek and places a kiss on the side of her nose.

“Oh? And how might that be?”

“Never so intense…” She whispers, turning slightly onto her side to look at Philippa. “Never so quick, either…”

Philippa raises an eyebrow. “That was quick?”

“For me, yes,” Michael clarifies, and Philippa’s lips twitch into a brief, satisfied smile.

“Pretty good, then?”

“A little better than “ _pretty good_ ,” I would say,” Michael replies, her beautiful face only inches away and glowing with joy. She snuggles in closer, squeezing her arms tighter around Philippa’s body, and Philippa can feel her smile in the movement of lips at her forehead.

“So…how do I rank amongst your representative sample?”

Michael’s smile becomes a broad grin. “You know, it _did_ feel like you had a chip on your shoulder.”

Philippa pokes at a ticklish spot under Michael’s ribs, and Michael squeaks at it.

“Perhaps I am always that good, did you ever think of that?”

“The thought _has_ crossed my mind,” Michael manages through her giggles. “You’ll have a very high level of excellence to maintain.”

“Damn right.” Philippa whispers. She leans in and places a kiss on Michael’s lips, and Michael sighs happily against her mouth.

“If you really must know,” Michael begins in low voice after they part, “I believe that any such comparison would be…horrifically unfair to the rest of the sample population.”

Philippa allows herself a pleased smile at that, and Michael smiles back from mere inches away, dark eyes glowing like embers in the hazy afternoon sunlight.

“Was it everything you imagined?” Philippa finally teases, referencing Michael’s earlier statement.

In response, Michael looks towards the ceiling and takes a long, contemplative breath, mouth twisting as she appears thinks on the question.

A ruse as it turns out, as Philippa finds herself pinned to the bed a mere half-second later, Michael Burnham’s smug face above her.

“Not even close,” Michael grins, her fingertips wandering down the skin of Philippa’s ribcage to the tops of her pants. “ _You_ are still wearing pants, which is quite unfortunate.”

“Mmm, perhaps someone should do something about that,” Philippa parries with an innocent jut of her chin, even as her earlier state of arousal returns with a roaring, feverish vengeance at the very notion of Michael on top of her.

“Someone should,” Michael agrees, hands brushing at the skin above Philippa’s waistband; yet even as they do, her dark eyes grow thoughtful. A pensive look crosses her features, her head tilts as she appears to mull something over.

“Five years, ten months, twenty days of imagining,” Michael finally states, before looking Philippa in the eye with a distinctly _hungry_ expression. “I have…quite a lot of material to work through.”

“Another backlog?” Philippa’s voice is only a little breathless as Michael’s fingers dip into her pants to tease at her hipbones. “I wonder how long it will take to get through this one…”

Michael’s response to that question is a slow, wicked grin, and Philippa heart staggers in her chest, even as warm heat bursts somewhere between her legs. With mirth dancing in her eyes, Michael dips down to Philippa’s face, brushing their lips together with careful precision.

Her teasing whisper burns like fire against Philippa’s skin.

“ _Ages.”_

 

 

*

 

 

An unknown quantity of time later, Philippa Georgiou’s mind is the stillest it has been in well over a year. Her body seems oddly light, and her back smarts slightly from the scratches bestowed by Michael’s fingernails. (Michael had initially recoiled at the idea of wounding her in such a way, but relented after Philippa had all but begged.) She feels like she’s ascended to a different plane, her skin still buzzing slightly from orgasm number five.

Or was it seven?

“Do you have contact information for your representative sample?” Philippa murmurs drowsily. “I should send thank-you cards…”

The pinch to the sensitive portion of her hipbone is swift and silent, and elicits a rather undignified yelp.

Michael’s nose presses into her ear, her voice only a little bit prissy. “Why is it that I am not allowed to bring up my past partners in bed, but it is perfectly fine for you to do it?”

“Perks of being in command?”

“Ah, I see.” Michael’s fingers start to dance their way upwards, poking and prodding, and Philippa squirms. “Would you like names and current places of residence, or would personal comm signatures suffice?”

“I— _hah,_ I would like for you to _desist—_ “ Philippa struggles to contain her laughter as she slaps at Michael’s tickling fingers. She finally succeeds in pinning Michael’s hand between her upper arm and her side. “Clearly I need to work a little harder if you still have so much energy.”

Michael smiles at her from less than two feet away. She’s tucked beneath the covers, leaving only her head exposed. Her brown skin and dark curls look particularly ravishing pressed against the white linen surface of the pillows, and her beautiful face seems nothing short of radiant at the moment. The dying sun glows at her back, illuminating her silhouette like a halo. If it weren’t for the fact that Philippa remembers every second of the past several hours, she would think this is the most wonderful dream she has ever had.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting tired already.”

“I just saw you yawning, Michael,” Philippa counters.

“I’m not tired,” Michael denies petulantly, even as she snuggles in close. Philippa slides an arm beneath her and wraps the other over her back to meet it, holding Michael secure against her body.

“Sure you’re not.” Philippa smirks. Michael sighs, and Philippa feels the delicate brush of eyelashes on her collarbone as her eyes flutter shut. Her smirk widens, because it is a _definite_ stroke to her ego, being fifty-five and still managing to wear out her thirty-two year old lover.

The fact that said thirty-two year old lover has been a malnourished prisoner of war for over a year is irrelevant.

As peaceful silence reigns over the sunny bedroom, Philippa’s thoughts slowly, slowly return to the event that prompted all of this.

The transmission from Vulcan.

Vulcan High Command, Minister Sevel, her speech, her offer…

 _All_ of her offer.

“Are you…happy about this?”

Silence.

“Was the two hours of sex somehow not indicative?” Comes the dry response, and one of Michael’s hands begins to wander down Philippa’s chest. “Because I might be able to manage a third if we eat first—“

“Alright, alright.” Philippa rolls her eyes and grabs the hand before it has a chance to cause mischief. She nudges at the top of Michael’s curls until the woman looks up from where she lies cushioned on Philippa’s collarbone.

Philippa sighs, considering her next words carefully. “They say that…they want you to work with the Klingons. Such close contact with them, after what you have been through…” It sounds hellish to Philippa, but she understands that she and Michael have different ways of dealing with trauma. “Would you be alright with that, love?”

Michael thinks on this for several moments, and Philippa can practically see the gears whirring in her head, the currents of emotion swirling behind her brilliant brown eyes.

Finally, Michael shrugs.

“I can’t change what happened to me. All I can really change is…what I do with the experience.” Michael scoots in closer, and Philippa rubs a warm hand down her spine. “It was an entire year of my life, Philippa, this is my chance to make something of it. Something _excellent_.”

Even as she speaks, her voice turns from matter-of-fact to earnest, her dark face comes to life with joy. “I get to be a xenoanthropologist again…not a soldier, not a killer. I can take all of the horrible shit that happened, and I can use it for good. I can be a messenger of peace, of unity, I can serve as a bridge between our civilizations, _all_ of them...”

Michael’s smile becomes wide and dazzling now, setting her features aglow in the hazy sunlight.

“How could I be anything but happy?”

Philippa only shakes her head at this, quite unable to speak. With a sudden surge of emotion, she pulls Michael tight to her, relishing her love’s beautiful, naked form pressed into her own.

Michael Burnham’s warm, living body, her bright, brilliant mind, her huge, hopeful heart that loves and forgives, that learns from the past and looks to the future with joy and curiosity.

_Thank the Gods she lived, for this universe is a brighter place with her in it._

“That’s…that’s admirable,” Philippa finally manages.

In lieu of verbal response, Michael shifts slightly in Philippa’s tight hold to brace her chin on Philippa’s collarbone. She raises one challenging eyebrow, warm humor dancing in her expression.

Philippa rolls her eyes.

“Don’t say it.”

Michael only scoots an inch closer, and the corners of her mouth turn upwards.

“Don’t say it, Michael,” Philippa insists, though her own lips are twitching despite her best efforts.

In response, Michael brings their faces together, noses brushing. Philippa can feel the happy smile on her love’s mouth, and doesn’t have the heart to protest further.

“ _Logical,_ ” Michael corrects in a whisper.

Philippa kisses the word off of those warm, full lips, and sends a silent prayer of thanks to God, to the universe, to the unifying, all-powerful force pulling the strings, for seeing fit to give her and Michael this perfect moment together, and hopefully many more to come.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then they ordered take-out and watched a movie and everything was awesome :)


	23. The Human Farewell

 

 

Michael Burnham thinks quite often that she might be the luckiest Vulcan-raised human in the universe.

A foolish thought, she then chides herself, as “luck” is an illogical, whimsical concept created by the human brain to make sense of the incomprehensible.

_But is that not what this is?_

Incomprehensible. A word that accurately describes Michael’s life as it stands now, six months and twenty-nine days since the Battle For Earth. The three months and twelve days since the conclusion of her trial have been some of the best of Michael’s entire life, made even better in comparison to the hellish year and twelve days preceding them.

She wakes up every morning after a sound, dreamless sleep, and she rolls out of bed with no pain, no aches, no agony blooming in her every nerve and muscle. She eats vegetables, fresh ones grown in planetary soil, not assembled on a molecular level by replicators. The yellow sun beams onto her skin, the wind blows across her face, reminding her every day that she is free, that the war is over.

In addition to the obvious, a significant reason behind the heavenly nature of the past months would be the concentrated effort of a certain Starfleet captain, who seems to have made it her personal mission during the crew of the _Discovery_ ’s extended leave to make Michael Burnham as happy as she possibly can.

There was no real way that she could have ever failed in this mission, Michael has stated this several times. Just being able to wake up next to Philippa Georgiou (after pleasuring her into an exhausted slumber the night before) would have been more than enough. Of course, Philippa had only smiled at the sentiments, before promptly redoubling her efforts.

They divide their time squarely between Vulcan and Earth, with a good number of hours spent on various planets and space stations in between. Philippa meets Amanda and Sarek as someone far closer to Michael’s heart than in previous times. Neither of Michael’s guardians seem particularly surprised at the direction their relationship has taken.

(Michael confides in her one night that because of their regular mind-melds over the past year, Sarek has likely seen every thought she has ever had. Philippa’s face had gone as white as a sheet, and Michael’s shaking laughter had gotten her physically ejected from their bed.)

Michael wishes that she could have met Aisha Georgiou, and Philippa agrees. The only biological family the captain has presently are a handful of distant cousins that she is not particularly close to, but she makes up for this by introducing Michael to the family she has built during her thirty years in Starfleet, and there are a great many of them. She takes great pleasure in arranging dinners and hangouts with various crewmembers of the _Discovery_ , and to her surprise, Michael enjoys this as well.

Sylvia Tilly ( _Ensign_ Tilly, as she is sure to mention during their second introduction) is all but vibrating with excitement at having dinner with the first person to ever create stable artificial wormholes using three-dimensional humanoid technology. Michael talks shop with her for nearly twenty minutes until she calms down, and their meal is quite pleasant from there on out. Though she clearly takes great efforts to control it, Michael is certain that the bubbly redhead squeals internally every time she and Philippa demonstrate any type of non-platonic attention towards each other.

(“She is my new protégée, Michael, of course she is excited for my happiness.” Philippa explains with a smile after they leave the restaurant.

“Is she is aware that she is your protégée?” Michael asks, feeling just a hint of amusement at this turn of events, at how utterly opposite Sylvia Tilly is from herself.

“Mmm, no.” Philippa grins. “But I am quite looking forward to the look on her face when I tell her.”)

Her interactions with Lieutenant Ash Tyler are less lighthearted, but far more profound. Philippa stays for the first hour to lubricate the proceedings before giving them privacy to talk, and the two former prisoners of war do have a great deal to talk about. Michael returns after the sun has gone down, tear tracks on her cheeks but heart floating light in her chest. She feels a great deal of kinship with Ash Tyler, as well as a deep respect for the man that is most certainly mutual.

Paul Stamets and Hugh Culber are nowhere to be found for almost the entire six months of shore leave. Philippa worries that they have both decided to resign from Starfleet, until the two show up at Fleet headquarters on the last day before the canceling of their commissions, both looking incredibly relaxed and several shades darker. Upon asking where they’ve been, Stamets only pulls a glowing orange mushroom head from his pocket and places it in the captain’s hand.

Culber doesn’t even bother to apologize for him.

Saru returns to his home planet for his time of shore leave, but Philippa keeps in touch, and after a great deal of halting awkwardness and stilted conversation, her first officer and former first officer finally manage a workable friendship. The captain notes the date and time in her personal log, and earns a bewildered look from Michael after she pours one out for Ensign Danby Connor.

What crew of the _U.S.S. Shenzhou_ that did not continue to serve on the _Discovery_ makes an effort to reconnect with Michael, either in person, in holo or in writing. Michael is simultaneously pleased and exhausted at this, but does her best to respond kindly.

And it is not merely her old crew that tries to connect with her.

She supposes that it should not have come as such a surprise, but it seems that wherever Michael goes, on Earth, on Vulcan, or anywhere in between, she is stopped by some being or another and thanked profusely for her actions in stopping the war. Handshakes are common from the Humans she meets, and Michael eventually becomes inured to them. Vulcans, at least, have greater restraint, giving respectful nods and the occasional salute.

It is far more respect than Michael has ever received from the culture that had fostered her, and though Philippa points out that she hardly should have needed to end a galactic war _and_ produce a scientific miracle to earn it, Michael appreciates the acknowledgment nonetheless.

Of course, the months after the trial are not entirely a vacation.

Michael spends several weeks on Vulcan prepping for her officer commission with the Vulcan Expeditionary Group. She meets her crew and her captain, performs all of the necessary assessments, and familiarizes herself with their research and diplomatic efforts. By all appearances, it seems that her position with the Expeditionary Group will be a combination of diplomat, scientist, and (due to the inherent nature of Klingons) warrior.

Ironically, a description nearly indistinguishable from that of her preceding seven years in Starfleet.

While she works with the Vulcans, Philippa oversees the repairs and upgrades to the _U.S.S. Discovery,_ and performs a great deal of administrative duties at Starfleet headquarters. Philippa admits to Michael that she is genuinely astonished that she herself hasn’t been court-martialed for violating Starfleet ethics while getting the spore drive online, and for ignoring a direct order to stand down on the day of the Battle for Earth.

Michael points out that both of these actions were successful while her own mutiny was not, and Philippa rolls her eyes to the heavens before muttering that Harry Mudd may have had a point concerning oversight.

Despite the joy of the months of shore leave, the experiences of the twelve months and eleven days of war will likely never fully go away. Michael has made her peace with this. At times, Klingon springs to her lips faster than Standard English. She still cowers in the blackness of the early mornings, before slowly realizing that it is not the darkness of a Klingon ship, but rather the darkness produced by lowered shades and dimmed lamps of the room that she shares with her Human partner.

The relief that she feels at this occasionally seems like it might stop her heart.

Philippa’s nightmares continue, but at least they are starting to ebb. The counseling they are both receiving helps a great deal, as well as sharing the trauma with each other. It is strange, but Michael feels that with every piece of Philippa’s past that she takes on, her own burden grows lighter in response.

No doubt this has something to do with the mysterious universal force called love. As a scientist, Michael greatly looks forward to dedicating her efforts towards the study and research of this phenomenon. It is no doubt a project that will last the rest of her life.

She can think of no better use for the days left to her.  

 

When the three months, twelve days finally run their course, there is no sadness from either end, only immense anticipation. After all, Philippa Georgiou and Michael Burnham are explorers and scientists, emissaries of peace and discovery, their paths written out in the stars and galaxies above. Philippa longs for her ship and her crew, and Michael feels an intense excitement towards her new commission with the Vulcans.

She will return to the stars, return to her people-by-fostering, the people that, even after all of these years, she still knows best. She will use her powerful position with the Klingons to act as a bridge between the Empire and the rest of the galaxy, and perhaps in doing so, will find atonement for her actions during the Battle for Earth.

Philippa will return to Starfleet, she will spearhead the reconstruction of a once-glowing institution now warped by fear and war. Michael suspects that she is looking for a more personal type of reconstruction in this crusade; a reversal of the bloody, brutal reputation she had earned in the year of constant fighting and violence.

They are seeking peace and redemption in their own ways, paths that parallel each other even as they diverge, a notion that Michael finds fitting to the point of fated.

She and Philippa proceed through the Starfleet shipyard, surrounded by cheerful Starfleet personnel and grumpy starship techs alike. The ring of starship repairs and the bustle of many species provide a comforting ambient background noise. Michael’s boots impact the hard concrete surface of the shipyard floor with purpose, and she savors the fact that she feels no pain in the act of walking. Her strides are even, her weariness gone after months of strengthening exercises and appropriate nutrition. Philippa’s pace finally matches hers, and Michael suspects that the woman is delighted.

Michael Burnham lived and trained with the physically superior Vulcan race her entire life, and this gave her a perpetual advantage over her human peers, her captain included. Michael knows that Philippa had always struggled to keep up with her running pace, her stamina, her raw physical strength, and though she would never say so, Michael’s present, infinitesimally weaker state puts them on equal footing at last.

“Commander Burnham?” Michael is pulled from her thoughts, and she and Philippa stop dead in their tracks to avoid collision with a small group of Starfleet cadets blocking their path.

The query originated from a young Tellarite woman at the forefront of the group. Her back is straight, her gaze steady, she is obviously the brave one out of the cluster of shrinking cadets.

Michael smiles gently at the title the young woman had offered her. “It’s Sub-Commander Burnham now, Cadet,” she corrects. “May I help you with something?”

She offers the question slightly in jest. Michael knows full well what this is about. She senses, rather than sees, Philippa looking away with a small smile on her face.

“ _We-_ “ the Tellarite woman glares over her shoulder at her nervous friends. “-just wanted to say thank you for all that you did. We all owe you our lives, every one of us…”

Even after months of hearing this from strangers all across the galaxy, Michael is still moved by the words.

“…even if Starfleet can’t see that.” The girl’s expression darkens, as do those of the other cadets. Michael hears a faint “ _Fuck Admiral Kepler,”_ from somewhere in the group, followed quickly by “ _Shut up!” “That’s Captain Georgiou you idiot!”_ and Philippa snorts from her place next to her.

Michael is amused as well, but contains her reaction appropriately. “I appreciate your sentiments, Cadet…?”

She trails off expectantly, and the Tellurian girl finishes. “Skalaara, ma’am.” She looks like she wants to extend her hand in greeting, but restrains herself just in time, choosing instead to hold eye contact with Michael. Her dark blue eyes are steady as they meet Michael’s brown ones.

Michael raises her eyebrows in surprise and appreciation. Clearly, this young woman has done her research. She gives Philippa a significant sideways look, the kind that all but screams, _this is how you greet a Vulcan,_ and Philippa rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

They could argue about who breached diplomatic protocol during their first introduction until the cows come home, and still resolve nothing.

After the cadets leave, Philippa’s expression morphs into something downright mischievous. “My, how the tables turn, Number One.”

Michael looks at her with a questioning eyebrow.

“Usually I am the one getting stopped by cadets.” Philippa smiles, and Michael knows that her partner is not put out, but rather amused at the turn of events.

“Yes, well, this is a bizarre new reality in many ways,” Michael offers. She intends the response to be deadpan, but a cheeky smile crosses her face despite her best efforts.

Philippa shakes her head at it, her dark eyes dancing with humor. “Oh, look who’s proud of herself.”

“Intensely,” Michael replies, her lips struggling to contain her joy. She _is_ proud, and she deserves to be.

Philippa only smiles back, her delicate features set alight by happiness. “You know…” Philippa starts walking again, and Michael follows. “…applications to Starfleet Academy are down by nearly forty percent. Out of this year’s applicant pool, over twenty percent of their applicants actually rescinded their applications after submission.”

Michael raises her eyebrow at the information. Applying to Starfleet Academy is a long and rigorous process, requiring nearly a full year of testing, many recommendations, and a lengthy series of interviews. To cancel one’s application after completing all of the steps is nearly unheard of, and now twenty percent of applicants had done it?

_Curious._

“I presume this is somehow related to me?”

Philippa nods. “They are protesting your fate, Michael. Few were happy with Judiciary’s decision, and it seems that they are doing something about it.”

Michael looks over at her Human partner while they walk. Philippa’s face is set with one of Michael’s favorite looks, the one that suggests that she is all but bursting with a joyful secret and wants everyone to know it.

“And I presume _that_ is somehow related to you?”

Philippa passes her tongue behind her lips, her eyes light up with secret knowledge, and Michael thinks that, for a respected diplomat, her captain is being almost ridiculously transparent at the moment.

“I may have…dropped several suggestions in various chatrooms and holochannels.” Michael shoots her an incredulous side-eye. “Refusing the commendations helped as well,” Philippa adds. “Particularly after so many others did the same.”

Her mischief drains to something more sincere.

“It may be a long time, Michael, but with everything currently happening at command, the restructuring of leadership, the academy drama…” Philippa stops walking now, and looks at Michael with sincere eyes. “…I truly believe that your current standing with Starfleet will be changed.”

Michael swallows, wondering how she ought to respond.

“…I…I _genuinely_ appreciate all that you’ve done for me, Philippa…” She does not want to accidentally offend her lover with too-candid words. Michael phrases her next question carefully. “It’s only that…my standing with Starfleet is not terribly important to me, but it seems to be so very important to you...even now.” She cocks her head and allows her confusion to color her features. “… _Why_?”

“Well I did spend seven years mentoring you, Michael, I would hate for all of my hard work to go to waste.”

Michael lets out a surprised huff at Philippa’s sudden switch to levity, and her own tone becomes wry in response.

“Well Captain, your _hard work_ ended a galactic war, and produced a major breakthrough in the field of applied quantum astrophysics, I would hardly call that a waste.”

Philippa laughs in genuine delight. “I did a very good job, wouldn’t you say so?”

“I am without a doubt your greatest success,” Michael agrees, looking off into the distance. She feels Philippa’s teasing gaze burning into her as she does so.

She will not smile.

She will _not_ smile.

The battle was lost before it began, and Michael turns away to hide her uncontrollable grin. Philippa nudges playfully at her side, and Michael can all but feel her triumph.

 _Being in love is truly an odd experience_ , Michael reflects. She never had this level of difficulty in controlling her emotions around her captain back on the _Shenzhou_ , back when she was very much in love, but not acting upon it.

 _Still,_ she acknowledges, _who am to attempt to subvert such a fundamental force of the universe?_

“So…” Michael shakes herself out of the thought. She still has several burning questions. “Are you going to tell me what this is about?”

Philippa’s expression turns pensive, her eyes flickering over Michael’s face, as if weighing her next action carefully.

Finally, she reaches into her pocket to retrieve a data cube. With a series of taps from one finger, she brings up an image that Michael takes in with…considerably less surprise than what might have been expected of her, in light of what the cube shows.

“This is a liaison request.”

It is not a question.

“I am the captain of a cutting-edge experimental science vessel, Michael…” Philippa begins as she starts walking again, “…whose classified mission I have _not_ shared with you--”

The emphasis on the “not” is accompanied by an exaggerated wink, and Michael shakes her head in amusement. The _Discovery’s_ classified mission was practically the first thing that Philippa had shared with her the moment the two of them had gotten any privacy after the Battle for Earth had ended.

“Due to psychological health concerns, Sylvia and Stamets are no longer going to be the drive navigators—“

“ _Sylvia_?” Michael interrupts, her eyebrows raised. “Do you call her that to her face?”

“No, I call her that to her back,” Philippa states sarcastically, and Michael snorts.

“Does she pass out in shock every time you do so?”

“Hey, that only happened once!” Philippa grins. Michael laughs, because she can picture _that_ interaction quite vividly.

“Look, anyway…” the captain continues, waving the humor aside. “…we cannot continue to use Humans for the drive, they are incompatible. As such, we are presently searching for other possibilities.”

Philippa’s voice is low and serious now, and Michael straightens at it.

“For better or worse, Michael your background makes you the most knowledgeable person in the universe concerning inter-dimensional travel. You would be…a great help to us. An unimaginable help to our research.”

Michael’s scientific mind whirs to life at the implications of the sentence.

“A V.E.G.-Starfleet scientific liaison,” Philippa elaborates. “A cross-cultural partnership for work on the only spore-hub drive vessel in the universe.”

The change in Philippa’s tone is palpable in the air between them. “The Vulcans boast some of the brightest minds in the field of quantum mechanics, and you are now a part of their ranks. Not to mention your work with the Klingons, in building that machine…”

Michael quickly recalls the work, the wormhole device, the staggering progress that the Klingons had made in the field of quantum astrophysics before she had even come aboard the ship.

“The science they came up with was unlike anything Humans could manage,” she murmurs, her mind flickering through possibilities at near-light speed. “And that is _because_ they are not Human…”

“Precisely!” Philippa’s excitement finally bleeds into her voice. “You see where I am going with this?”

The idea is knocking Michael flat where she stands, boots pressed firmly into the durasteel surface of the shipyard. “A cross-cultural exchange…Klingon, Vulcan, and Human…all working on the most groundbreaking advance in stellar travel since the warp drive.”

“It is like Minister Sevel said,” Philippa’s dark eyes sparkle, the slight breeze tugs at the ends of her hair, partial sunlight dancing across her face. “Only by diversity can we overcome the impossible. Just _imagine,_ Michael, what we could discover if Vulcans, Humans, and Klingons were to work together.”

And Michael does. She allows herself to imagine, for a brief moment, what might happen if the liaison request to the _Discovery_ were to be granted, if her upcoming work with the Klingon leadership pays off, if the Expeditionary Group is as committed to a future of peace and unity as Minister Sevel had promised.

All of the brilliant minds from the Vulcan Science Academy, the best and brightest Klingon scientists she had crewed with for an entire year, most of whom had not been on the flagship during the Battle for Earth, most of whom had survived the war…

 _A cross-cultural scientific exchange_ …

She understands that this is a far-off notion; the Vulcans are busy with their reconstructive efforts, not to mention the idea of Klingons voluntarily working with Starfleet is hopeful to the point of fantasy, far-off in the extreme…

And yet…

Philippa’s dark eyes sparkle from several feet away, joy, excitement, and mischief in equal parts, and Michael remembers, quite suddenly, her partner’s once-cherished value of hope.

It occurs to Michael that the type of redemption that Philippa is looking for might be far closer than she believes.

“We would make awfully quick work of the spore drive,” she finally murmurs, and Philippa smiles.

“The mycelium network would stand no chance.”

In the next moment, Philippa twitches, as if something has just occurred to her.

“This would all be your choice, of course.” She states quickly. “I would never want you to force you into something you did not want to do—“

“Hey,” Michael cuts her off gently. “Did any part of me sound reluctant, just now?”

Philippa smiles once more. “I suppose not.”

And there is no reluctance in Michael’s mind at all. The idea of working towards an instantaneous transport that will not warp laws of nature and threaten the fabric of reality itself is, to her, intensely intriguing.

Even while Michael muses on this, Philippa deactivates the holo-image and pockets the cube once more. “Starfleet, the Federation… all is in flux at the moment. This is a time of great change for the galaxy, so I thought I would put things into motion as early as possible.”

Michael’s eyes flicker over Philippa’s face, reading her thoughts in the subtle shifts of her expression.

“It will take a long time.”

Once again, not a question.

“We all need time,” Philippa responds, her lilting voice calm and accepting. “You and I…the Federation, the Vulcans, the Klingons…we all need time to heal, to evolve. It is a far-off possibility, I am aware of this, but…we have time.”

Michael considers this as the whine of subspace engines echoes across the shipyards, as people of all species tread by and chatter amongst themselves, as Philippa’s fingertips brush across her own as they continue their stroll in amiable silence.

Time to heal, to recover and rebuild, to make up for past sins and become the people they once were, or perhaps something even better…time to work towards a future of universal peace and prosperity.

A future that Michael had never thought she would live to see.

_Martyrdom…_

A long time ago, Michael had thought this the only way to her redemption. To die as a savior, as a hero, as something much greater than she could have been had she lived.

Destiny is upon her now, in the form of Humans who see her forgiving her captors and making peace with the enemy, in the form of Vulcans who see her dual nature as a strength, in the form of Klingons who sing songs of _her_ , Michael Burnham, The Woman Who Wields The Universe, humanity’s first daughter of Vulcan who defeated Kahless’s heir in single combat and passed through the void untouched…

_Could I live as something greater than I would have been, had I died?_

Michael squeezes once at Philippa’s hand, and she squeezes back.

“Wait.” A sudden thought occurs to Michael, and she feels somewhat uncertain now. She stops walking, and Philippa stops with her. “Would that not be slightly unprofessional, us working together again?” Her lips twitch slightly. “” _We have a fraternization policy for a reason, Michael,_ ” she teases, quoting Philippa’s words of several months previous, when the question had aired over the possibility of continued service on the same ship.

Philippa snorts at that. “I think we have already demonstrated rather spectacularly that we cannot be impartial regarding each other, and when we try…well…”

Her expression darkens slightly, and Michael knows she is remembering the fight on T’Kuvma’s flagship at the Binary Stars, when Philippa had been cornered into an impossible choice between duty and love.

With a rush of sympathy, Michael squeezes her hand once more, hoping to convey some level of comfort.

Philippa squeezes back, and seems shakes herself out of whatever melancholy had taken her. “For all of Starfleet’s flaws, I do believe in our fraternization policy. But,” she smiles. “I won’t be the captain of the _Discovery_ forever.”

Michael raises both eyebrows at this.

“You would have me work with the _Discovery,_ with Captain Saru as my primary liaison contact point?” Michael’s voice is deadpan and disbelieving, and Philippa’s lips twitch at her tone. “Thought you loved me,” Michael quips dryly.

“I exaggerated,” Philippa shrugs, before turning on a heel and walking away.

“What—“

Michael’s jaw drops in mock-outrage, and she takes several quick steps to catch up to her partner. “You exaggerated? Really?”

Philippa grins broadly, she is clearly trying not laugh, and it takes a great deal out of Michael to not laugh as well.

Michael continues blithely. “Well, you _exaggerated_ quite a bit last night—“

“Stop it—“

“—what was it, five times?”

“Four times,” Philippa corrects archly, amusement and annoyance clearly waging war in her voice.

Michael’s only response is a knowing smile.

“Well then, you may want to consider a post-Fleet career in the holo industry, since you seem to be such a skilled actress.”

Philippa only rolls her eyes at this, but a smile tugs its way onto her lips as she does so.

“We have overcome quite a bit in our efforts to stay together. I am certain we will surmount any obstacles that may come our way in the future. We will just have to…see what happens.”

Philippa casts a sideways look at Michael now, and the uninhibited love in her expression makes Michael want to sigh, or swoon, or some other such form of emotional outburst that would make any Vulcan blush in embarrassment.

Michael is grateful that she is Human.

Philippa’s fingers interlace with her own, soft skin, tendons and muscles made strong from a lifetime of combat training. A stab of bittersweet emotion runs through Michael’s heart, because she will miss Philippa desperately.

Michael _does_ genuinely look forward to working amongst Vulcans again. Naturally, it will have its upsides and downsides, but the peace and familiarity of her own culture is something that she feels will benefit her at this time. The year of captivity had been difficult in the extreme, and the stress of the follow-up court martial certainly had not helped matters. Michael knows that to live amongst her serene Vulcan peers will be a balm for her mind, a salve for her trauma.

Not to mention, joining the Vulcan Expeditionary Group has been her dream since childhood, and she is the first person, Human or Vulcan, to ever be _offered_ a position with the prestigious group, rather than applying and waiting for acceptance. The thought fills her with pride unbecoming of a Vulcan, but (she reasons) understandable for a Human.

Nevertheless, the longing to once again serve under Captain Georgiou, to be in the same ship, the same _room_ as the woman, to be the unstoppable team that they once were, sometimes overwhelms her.

Michael understands that a large part of this desire is merely longing for her old life on the _U.S.S. Shenzhou,_ when the universe was peaceful and made sense. When she was an untested explorer, bright eyed and hopeful, not a war-hardened former prisoner who still speaks in Klingon grunts and howls in the half-awake early mornings.

_It is no use going back to yesterday because I was a different person then._

The _Alice in Wonderland_ quote seems wholly appropriate for this situation.

 _Life goes on,_ Michael knows. _As must I._

And she _will_ go on…in her new life, as a different person with different ideas, different goals, different aspirations.

A Human amongst Vulcans working with Klingons. A Vulcan reject now serving in a position of honor amongst her foster-culture, a one-time mass murderer working towards a future of peace with the xenophobic Klingon race that now reveres her…

A bridge between three vastly different species.

Michael cannot help but recall Sarek’s counsel from so very long ago, on the eve of the Battle of the Binary Stars.

_Great unifiers are few and far between…_

_But they do come._

She had been so naïve back then, thinking that the only cause profound enough to rally followers behind such a leader was war.

_What more profound a cause could there be than galactic peace?_

The transporter hub is dead ahead of them now, dozens of flashing metal pads set into the durasteel floor of the spaceport. People of all species come and go in flickering flashes of orange dust, and Michael can sense the buzzing of power beneath her feet as the shipyard routes massive amounts of electricity to feed the demands of molecular dissociative transport.

She holds tighter to Philippa’s hand while she can.

The _Discovery_ is in stable geostationary docking over Earth, the _Mol’Kom_ several orbitals higher, its Vulcan-made hull not designed to withstand the effects of Earth’s particular magnetic fields for long periods of time. The future hangs above them, far beyond the confines of the atmosphere, and there is a great deal of work to be done.

_Could I live as something greater than I would have been, had I died?_

A persistent question of many consecutive months, yet the answer is slowly, slowly taking shape.

Couples of all shapes and sizes stand at the edge of the pad cluster, some hugging and kissing, others merely smiling and gazing into each others’ eyes. There are parents saying goodbye to their children, children saying goodbye to their parents, families of all sorts preparing to go their separate ways.

Michael had never understood such public emotional displays until now.

“You know I can get by with one hand, Michael, but I don’t particularly want to.”

Philippa’s tone is teasing, but Michael realizes that she has been gripping her partner’s right hand far harder than what a Human would consider comfortable.

She releases the hand as if burned. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright, love…” Philippa smiles and reaches back for Michael’s hand, squeezing the first two digits in a comforting way. Michael squeezes back and cherishes the feeling of skin-to-skin contact. It could be a long while before she experiences such a thing again.

A Vulcan man eyes this display from several feet in front of them, before stoically moving to a transporter pad and dissembling into particles almost immediately. Michael snorts at the unsubtle show of discomfort.

“You seem to have scared him off.” Philippa notes.

“Have you seen us?” Michael gives Philippa a significant glance, before raising one suggestive eyebrow at their clasped hands. “I suspect he had a different reason for leaving.”

Philippa snorts at that. “Try not to lose all of that humor while amongst the Vulcans.”

“Would it startle you if I were to return as the person I was when I arrived on the _Shenzhou_ eight years ago?”

“Beyond belief.” Philippa nods, amusement playing at the corners of her lips. “But I wouldn’t love you any less for it.”

Michael smiles at that, her dark eyes dancing with joy. She hears these words from her Human partner every day, and she would hear them again and again until the days trickle to a stop, until the sands of time run out and the universe itself grows cold and dark in its unceasing expansion.

Then perhaps a few days beyond that.

“You better keep in touch,” Philippa states, and Michael can hear the uncertainty hidden beneath her statement. She brings the knuckles of Michael’s hand to her mouth and kisses them lightly, then clasps the hand to her chest like some sort of security item. There’s a worried look on her face…worried to the point of genuine fear _._ Michael’s eyebrows crease in concern.

She looks from Philippa to the transporter pads and back, and puts the pieces together.

“Nothing bad is going to happen to me, Philippa,” Michael insists, ducking her head slightly to make eye contact with her partner. “I will be with the Vulcans, practically the safest place in the universe _._ ”

Philippa shakes her head at that, her dark eyes flashing with conviction. “The safest place in the universe is at _my_ side, Michael, because you can be damn certain I would never let any harm come to you.”

The words are highly illogical, and intensely romantic. Michael’s heart quivers in her chest, and she takes a deep breath through her nose to steady herself. Philippa notices this, and the corners of her lips twitch into an amused smile.

“Well…” Michael shrugs helplessly, “…then I will be in the second-safest place in the universe.”

“That’s right,” Philippa states with a smug nod. “Though I maintain that you deserve the best.”

“I have the best,” Michael counters, giving her partner a significant once-over.

Philippa scoffs and rolls her eyes, but her pleased smile gives her away.

“Well…on the off-chance anything _does_ happen to you, Michael, know that I will come and pull you out of whatever situation you’ve gotten yourself into, and I then will kill you myself.”

Michael is taken aback for a moment. “That…seems like it would defeat the purpose of getting me out of whatever situation I’ve gotten myself into.”

“It might, but it would make me feel better.”

“Well, that is the important thing,” Michael deadpans.

Philippa blinks. She slowly turns her head to stare at Michael, astonishment coloring her features.

Michael looks at her expectantly, one eyebrow raised.

“Was that… _sarcasm,_ Number One?” Philippa beams with exaggerated delight.

Michael shakes her head at her partner’s teasing. “Of course not,” she counters, eyebrow quirked. “I was being completely sincere.”

Philippa only shakes her head at this, a reluctant smile crossing her delicate features, dimpling her cheeks in the way that Michael loves.

“I am going to miss you.”

“As will I,” Michael agrees softly. “But it isn’t so long, Philippa. Only six months until our shore leaves line up.”

She is uncertain which one of them she is trying to convince more with this assertion.

“Six months?” Philippa raises an expectant eyebrow. Michael rolls her eyes slightly.

“Six months, three days…” With a dry look, she pointedly raises her wrist to check her chrono. “Eighteen hours, eleven minutes.”

“Oh thank goodness, I thought there might be something wrong with you for a moment.”

Philippa’s comm-badge chirps; not a message, but a pre-set time warning.

They need to get going.

Michael steps forward easily, and Philippa moves in to meet her, hands coming to cup Michael’s face, fingertips brushing gently over her skin. Michael’s hands trace the gold paneling of Philippa’s uniform jacket, and she closes her eyes as their as their lips meet.

Kissing Philippa like this, in front of hundreds of people in a crowded Fleet shipyard, would have made Michael dreadfully uncomfortable months ago, but it doesn’t matter now, not in the least.

_And we certainly aren’t the only ones doing it._

With this soothing thought, Michael’s inhibitions fall to the wayside, forgotten. She spends several seconds memorizing the sensation of Philippa’s lips on hers, before happily releasing her grip on logic and rationality and allowing herself to become lost in emotion, in floating feelings and swirling, stunning sensation.

For one glorious moment, Michael Burnham becomes the stars and the planets, dust and the void, dark matter and celestial energy…

The universe itself, and whatever may lie beyond.

After several long moments, a brief eternity, the kiss comes to an end, but Michael pulls Philippa in close, holding her slender frame tightly. Philippa’s own grip is equally strong, and Michael sighs into the comforting embrace. Michael’s eyes close, her face buries itself in Philippa’s shoulder, and the world around them disappears.

“I love you,” Philippa whispers into her neck, and repeats herself in Malay, Mandarin, French.

“I love you too…” Michael whispers back in English, in two dialects of Vulcan, in a flurry of motion from her hands behind Philippa’s back…and finally, in a low Klingon rasp.

Philippa twitches slightly at this, her lips curving upwards.

“Don’t you start.”

Michael only smiles and squeezes her body tighter.

An unspecified amount of time passes, and for once, Michael is utterly unconcerned at this complete lack of scientific accuracy. The arms around Michael’s body cling hard, and Michael breathes deeply as they stand wrapped in each other. Philippa surrounds her, body and soul, giving energy to her limbs, strength to her heart, power to her convictions, and in that moment, Michael knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that anything, _anything_ , is possible _._

Time and space.

Love and logic.

Federation and Klingon.

Peace, and redemption.

_…_

Finally, finally, Philippa’s arms loosen and she pulls away slightly to look at Michael directly. Her warm, soft eyes trace across Michael’s face, and Michael’s heart shakes, her knees grow weak, because staring at the woman she loves like this is akin to staring at the sun, to standing next to a black hole, to passing unprotected through a rip in the universe itself…

Beautiful.

Terrifying.

Perfect.

Philippa brings her forehead to touch Michael’s, and her hands cup up to brush over Michael’s cheeks. Michael’s eyes fall shut, and she presses her face to Philippa’s for one moment…then two, then three, before pulling away slowly, gently.

Hands run down Michael’s shoulders, her biceps, her forearms, squeezing her hands tightly before releasing them, and Michael cannot help but think of fate, of the future. She casts a quick glance up into the dusky sky above the spaceport and imagines that she can see the _Discovery,_ the _Mol’Kom_ , and beyond that, the endless, unceasing stars...

The future she had never thought she would see, the future that lies before her, above her, infinite in scope, bright and glowing with possibility.

Philippa walks backwards several feet to step onto an adjacent transporter pad, her dark eyes sparkling with joy, with mischief, with love. Michael retreats two steps onto the pad behind her, which activates beneath her feet. Her own lips twitch into a reciprocal smile as she gazes at Philippa, yet even as they do, she feels the peculiar tingle of particle dissociation on the surface of her skin, the sensation as welcome as an old friend.

Michael takes in the stunning features of the woman she loves for one last time, before closing her eyes and surrendering to the sensation of transport. The cosmos sing their melodies from on high, the music of the celestial plane thrums in Michael’s bones, calling her home.

_Could I live as something greater than I would have been, had I died?_

The stars swirl above her, around her, within her.

_Easily._

The forms on the transporter pads dissolve into sparkling orange particles, and in the next moment, are gone.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did it!
> 
> It was way longer than I was expecting
> 
> Thanks everyone for the comments and encouragement, it's been a great time. I've had fun and learned a lot. I'm still nomi--sunrider on tumblr, come chat with me!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Upside Down](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17044520) by [nomisunrider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomisunrider/pseuds/nomisunrider), [Radiolaria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radiolaria/pseuds/Radiolaria)
  * [Sonnets](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17044712) by [nomisunrider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomisunrider/pseuds/nomisunrider), [Radiolaria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radiolaria/pseuds/Radiolaria)
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